


Taking Back Kirkwall

by dualwieldteacup (cinnamon_sunshine9)



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Origins, Dragon Age: Origins - Awakening
Genre: Alcohol, M/M, Mistaken Identity, Modern AU, Mutual Pining, Online Romance, Pop Punk AU, Secret Identity, Slow Burn, band au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-30
Updated: 2017-10-13
Packaged: 2018-09-13 07:12:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 37,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9112183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cinnamon_sunshine9/pseuds/dualwieldteacup
Summary: Years after leaving the successful but short-lived band The Wardens, Anders decides to get back into the music scene after reading praise for his past work by an adoring music critic, "GH." Anders finds himself falling for "GH" while *also* crushing on his very cute but terribly shy new bandmate... Hawke.Pop punk band AU, because there is nothing more punk rock than drinking darkspawn blood and fighting for revolution. Slow burn, lots of dramatic irony and silly misunderstandings, eventual Anders/Hawke happy ending.





	1. The finest line divides a night well spent from a waste of time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Garrett Hawke sees The Wardens in concert.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I started writing this because the Anders/Hawke romance soundtrack in my head is nothing but the pop-punk/emo/post-hardcore songs from my high school scene kid days. My first fanfiction I've written in about ten years! I hope you enjoy it.
> 
> Please feel free follow me on Tumblr (@dualwieldteacup) to stalk my ["Taking Back Kirkwall" tag](http://dualwieldteacup.tumblr.com/tagged/tbk), though be cautious if you aren't caught up on the latest chapter. Thank you for reading!
> 
> recommended listening:  
> [Taking Back Sunday - "You Know How I Do"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Uz4X44v5oig) ([lyrics](http://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/takingbacksunday/youknowhowido.html))  
> 

Garrett's nervous energy kept him bustling around the house all day just to have something to do with his hands. Leandra swore she had never seen him so productive. "My goodness, Wits. You should go to concerts every Saturday night, if it means you'll vacuum the living room."

"Can I get that in writing?" he grinned.

Leandra scoffed, but she was smiling. "Your father used to take me to concerts when we lived in Lothering. There was an outdoor stage on the hillside, past the windmills and Barlin's farm." Her eyelids lowered as she reminisced, rubbing the gold band on her finger. She gave a furtive little smile. "You know, sometimes after it got dark, and everyone left, we would sneak into the windmill and--"

Mercifully, the front door opened just then, and the twins blew in. "Hi," Garrett and Leandra called in unison. Carver dumped his soccer bag unceremoniously on the carpet and headed straight for the kitchen. "Yo," he called over his shoulder.

Bethany rolled her eyes as she placed his muddy cleats on the mat, then took her own cleats off and put them neatly beside his. "Hi mom, Garrett. Got the mail." She pulled a bundle of papers and envelopes from under her arm, and tossed a magazine to Garrett. "Look who's on the cover, Gare."

Garrett caught the magazine and unrolled it. Thedas Underground was the only magazine that covered anything he was remotely interested in, unlike the cooking publications his mother clipped recipes from, or the oversized glossy features about cars that Carver left lying around the house. TU was a self-proclaimed "punk periodical," and was Garrett's bible for new album reviews, awesome concert photos, and news about which bands had broken up, reunited, or all formed separate side projects, only to reunite in the end anyway. The articles were oddly inspiring, and Garrett stayed up late into the night reading and rereading them, wishing he could be part of that scene so badly. Well, he guessed he would take one step closer tonight.

On the cover were three guys and a girl, the latter of whom had a shock of pink hair in a high ponytail and a bright pink guitar slung carelessly over her shoulder. Her bandmates were a stout guy with an awesome red Viking-like beard, clutching drumsticks; one skinny dude with a hawk-like nose and long black hair, leaning on a trim wooden bass; and another equally skinny dude with dark blond hair, gripping a glowing bright blue Strat. Above these four musicians was printed a familiar logo in twisting letters: The Wardens.

Just the sight of the TU cover was enough to make Garrett's stomach squirm in equal parts delight and anticipation. He flipped the magazine over as he leaped up from the couch and grabbed Bethany's mud-splattered hands.

"We're gonna see The Wardens tonight, we're gonna see The Wardens tonight!" he sang loudly, twirling her around as she giggled.

"And Dueling Dragons!" called Carver from the kitchen, where the smell of a microwaved Pizza Pocket was emanating.

"Okay Gare, let me get up to the shower before Carver does," Bethany laughed, squirming away from him. "I'm gross and I can't go to a show smelling like a soccer field." She pattered up the stairs and they heard the water running.

Garrett left his mother to ask Carver about the soccer game, and went upstairs to change as well. He'd already changed his shirt twice today - once because he decided it was bad form to wear a Templars shirt to a Wardens show, and again after he vacuumed and got his Dane's Refuge shirt all sweaty. In the end, he chose a well-loved black shirt with the Blackstone Liaisons logo fading on the front. He brushed some dust from his jeans, ran a hand through his messy black hair, grabbed a maroon hoodie and his beat-to-shit Vans.

"Some war paint?" Bethany asked as he passed the ajar bathroom door. She had put on her favorite teal flannel over a Broken Circle t-shirt, and was studiously applying eyeliner.

Garrett grinned. "Sure, why not." It was kind of a silly tradition, but he still enjoyed it. Bethany used to draw a stripe of red paint across his nose when they were playing "mages versus warriors" as kids. The war paint made Hawke feel powerful and confident, and he had asked Bethany to paint it on for many important occasions (with the exception of job interviews).

Bethany finished with her eyeliner, dipped a finger in a small tub of dark red balm, and smeared it across his nose and under his eyes. "Perfect," she declared.

Two hours later, Carver was also cleaned up, they had all eaten dinner, and the siblings were struggling to get out the door. Leandra kept thinking of things to tell them.

"Be good, come home in one piece, for Maker's sake don't make me fetch you from prison. I love you." Leandra gave each of her children an exaggerated kiss on the cheek and hugged them tightly. "Have fun at your punk show."

"It's pop-punk, mom," Carver said, hugging her back.

"Though some of these groups consider themselves post-hardcore, actually--" Garrett began. Leandra laughed and waved her hands dismissively as Carver and Bethany dragged Garrett away.

They squeezed out the door and into Garrett's ancient car. It had been their father's car, and it was a miracle that it was still running. It was dirt brown, of all colors, the seats were threadbare, the stereo crackled, and it tended to drift towards the right unless Garrett was holding the wheel firmly in place and slightly to one side. Garrett loved it. It was one of the only things he could really consider _his_... until Bethany and Carver got their licenses next year, and they'd probably have to share.

He backed carefully out of the driveway, waving one last time to his mother who was standing in the kitchen window watching them. Then Bethany plugged in her phone and booted up their playlist, and they headed out onto the local road towards the venue.

Garrett heard the opening riff of his favorite Wardens song and felt his face break into a huge grin. "I can't believe we're finally getting to see The Wardens!" he shouted, smacking the steering wheel in rhythm to the crash of drumbeats.

"And Dueling Dragons," added Carver from the backseat.

"The Wardens are the ones who do that song 'Mental Fortress,' right?" Bethany asked idly, flipping the car mirror down to check the perfect side part in her hair. It was still perfect.

"No, that's The Templars," Garrett said. "You're always getting them mixed up."

"Oh, I knew it was The... Something. They're practically the same," Bethany said absently.

Garrett gaped at her, outraged, and Bethany laughed as she gestured back towards the road. "You're gonna hit a mailbox!"

Garrett corrected the steering wheel, his shock turning quickly to babbling excitement. "Okay okay so. The Wardens and The Templars were formed at around the same time, sure, but that's where the similarities stop. See, The Templars' songs are all about suffering and control, and The Wardens' songs are all about vigilance and standing by your friends when shit goes wrong. And The Templars tend to use the same three power chords over and over again, but The Wardens have the most amazing guitarist--"

"Here we go again," Carver groaned.

Garrett ignored him. "--the most _AMAAAAAAAAAAAZING_ guitarist, and he's, like, my age, which is wild. His name is Anders and he's just crazy talented. He writes all of their riffs and sometimes he plays with his guitar behind his head and they do this stage trick with sparks of electricity--"

"Mailbox!" yelled Bethany and Carver in unison. Garrett obediently swung the steering wheel back around.

"Okay, maybe stop thinking about this Anders guy and his sparkly fingers until we get to the show, yeah?" Carver suggested.

Garrett groused but fell into a comfortable silence, and let himself drift back into his thoughts to the tune of Bethany's playlist.

He couldn't say when he had first heard a Wardens song, only that he had listened to them probably every day of his life for the past year. They had one song, "Ostagar," that had some brief radio time during his junior year of high school, but Garrett's favorites were the ones that hardly anyone else knew. "Witch Hunt" was so emotional, full of sorrow for a broken friendship with someone who had disappeared unexpectedly. "Connor's Song" was about someone losing control of themselves to dark dreams and temptations of power. Cousland, the pink-haired lead singer, wrote astounding lyrics and sang them over complex harmonies between her own power chords, Nathaniel's resonating bass, Oghren's driving beats, and Anders' incredible riffs. The lead guitarist composed and played the intricate solos and winding melodies with ease. Garrett had tried to learn some of them from tabs online, but his thick fingers were happier playing simpler chords.

Garrett knew every word to every Wardens song by heart, and had spent more time than he would ever admit watching behind-the-scenes concert footage and looking at concert photos. He even had a small photo of Anders clipped from TU and tucked into his wallet: Anders was holding his signature blue Strat, Justice, behind his head as he played a gig in Denerim. He had sworn Bethany to a blood oath pact of secrecy the one time she borrowed some cash and found the photo.

"There it is!" Carver cried from the backseat, wrenching Garrett out of his reverie. Carver pulled himself forward by grabbing Garrett's and Bethany's headrests, and pointed unnecessarily towards the venue. Spotlights shone into the darkening sky and Garrett felt a thrill run through him. They rounded the corner towards the parking garage and he saw the bright green and gold lights above the doors: THE DEEP ROADS.

*

Later, Garrett was unable to recall exactly how the opening acts had been. They all ran together in his head (despite having yelled at Bethany for having done the exact same thing earlier). Had it been Dueling Dragons, or Scout's Honor, who had the crowd screaming their lyrics in Antivan? And was it Aura of Pain who had the keyboard player practically doing handstands on his instrument at one point? It seemed not to matter.

The last opening band cleared the stage, and Garrett glanced over at Bethany and Carver beside him. Bethany's carefully arranged side part had gotten totally mussed, while Carver's hair was sticking out in all directions. Carver had lost his left shoe twice, and had managed to recover it between sets. They both wore grins as wide as Garrett's, and they all added their voices to the deafening shout when the house lights were lowered and the stage lights began to glow blue.

One by one, The Wardens began to run onstage, and Garrett let out his breath in an "oof!" as the audience surged forward. When he regained his breath, Oghren was seated at his drum kit and Nathaniel had slung the strap of his bass over his shoulders. Anders was next, picking up Justice as carefully as if the instrument were a glass figurine. He was one of the only guitarists in the scene who didn't treat his instrument like shit, and there was something about that that pleased Garrett enormously. He tried not to look at Anders too much, as if the guitarist would be able to tell Garrett apart from any of the hundreds of people packed into the space. Despite being 40 feet away, maybe more, Garrett was actually seeing Anders in real life. It seemed too good to believe.

Cousland was last, her pink hair in a long ponytail that whipped back and forth as she jogged onstage, arms raised in a triumphant gesture. She had a figure skater's build, and wore a blue and silver dress that hugged her figure over tight black leggings. Garrett elbowed Carver, knowing that his brother had some very Cousland-heavy photos of The Wardens tacked above his desk in addition to his Dueling Dragons shrine. Cousland tossed her hair back, grabbed the mic from its stand and looked out at the sea of screaming fans with a predatory grin.

"Join us, brothers and sisters! Join us in the shadows where _WE-- STAND-- VIGILANT!_ " she shouted, voice amplified to a deafening volume, and the audience bellowed the last three words in unison with her. She leapt into the air, and when her feet hit the ground, the band exploded into their first song, "Ostagar."

It was unlike anything Garrett had ever known before, and it put all his previous experiences with this song to shame. He had listened to "Ostagar" a million times before: on his laptop with his really good headphones, the CD turned up as loud as his crappy car stereo would go... nothing compared to this.

The energy from the crowd pressing into him and the band above him was intoxicating. Garrett felt like he would never stop smiling, his voice drowned in the sea of voices that sang along with Cousland. It wasn't just _loud_ ; each beat send soundwaves coursing out of the giant amps and straight to Garrett's chest, making his body pulse with the rhythm. It might have hurt, if he weren't so in love with the feeling of losing himself to the music.

"Ostagar" ended and The Wardens played "The Golems of Amgarrak," "Stone Prisoner," and "Witch Hunt." Garrett was drenched in sweat and his voice was going hoarse from singing and shouting at the top of his lungs, but he didn't care. He abandoned staring at Cousland for Carver and the rest of the audience, and finally let his gaze fall upon Anders.

He was so... young. Garrett was struck by the movements of his muscles as he shifted his left hand up and down the fretboard, and his right hand plucked melodies effortlessly from the strings. A few rubber bracelets hung from his bony wrists, and they twitched as he played. The spotlights brought out the red undertones of his dark blond hair. Some pieces had come loose from his ponytail and were flying wildly around his face, brushing the faint stubble on his jaw. Garrett wondered just how old he was. 18? 19?

The crowd screamed when Cousland reached out her hands to them, punching the air in rhythm with the words she sang, but Garrett only had eyes for Anders. The guitarist rarely looked up at the crowd, though he would sometimes glance over at Nathaniel on bass or Oghren on drums and give the slightest nod to signal an entrance.

Heading into the breakdown of "Nature of the Beast," the audience screamed as one. They knew what was coming. Garrett watched, lips slightly parted, as Anders raised the guitar behind his head and started to play another insane riff. The movement caused the hem of his shirt to ride up, exposing a strip of pale stomach and the angular lines of his hipbones above the waistband of his jeans. Garrett swallowed hard.

The huge stage lights flashed white and blue, chaotic and dizzying. A shower of sparks rained down around Anders as he played the complex solo, biting his lip in concentration. And as the breakdown swelled towards its climax, Oghren assaulting the drums as if he meant to destroy them, Garrett could have sworn that Anders' hazel eyes locked with his for just a moment. He held his breath.

...And then, as if the soft, floaty feeling in his guts couldn't get any more out of control, Anders quirked up one corner of his mouth in a ghost of a smile.

This was definitely the best night of Garrett's life.

*

"So kids, how was the show?" Leandra asked as Bethany, Carver, and Garrett filed into the kitchen and flopped onto three stools at the counter. The smell of pancakes and bacon had roused them on Sunday morning despite their aching muscles.

"It was amazing," Bethany beamed, pouring them all orange juice and holding her glass in both hands reverently. Her hair was still a mess.

"Awesome," agreed Carver through a mouthful of pancake.

Leandra smiled down at the frying pan as she poured more batter onto the hot surface. "I'm so glad. And how about you, Wits? Don't tell me you're going to drop out of school and become a rockstar?"

Garrett chewed thoughtfully on a piece of bacon before he answered. The brief splash of water he'd cleaned with after getting home hadn't done much to wash away his war paint, which was slowly flaking away. "I _have_ made a decision about my career, actually..." he said, his voice gravelly from last night's screaming.

Leandra, Carver, and Bethany looked over at him curiously. His mother's brow suddenly furrowed in suspicion.

Garrett grinned at all of them. "I have decided... to write for Thedas Underground."


	2. Another six months, I'll be alone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Five years later, we meet Anders.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EDIT: Have edited this about a billion times since originally posting to fix some things, add and omit a few others, and clarify Anders' age.
> 
> Please feel free follow me on Tumblr (@dualwieldteacup) to stalk my ["Taking Back Kirkwall" tag](http://dualwieldteacup.tumblr.com/tagged/tbk), though be cautious if you aren't caught up on the latest chapter. Thank you for reading!
> 
> Recommended listening:  
> [Blink-182 - "Adam's Song"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2MRdtXWcgIw) ([lyrics](http://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/blink182/adamssong.html))

_...For me, what's missing from Weisshaupt's album is a strong sense of line in the lead guitar. There's no arguing that Alistair is an experienced guitarist -- I mean, the guy was playing before Elissa Cousland even thought about starting her first band -- but let's be real, he's no Anders. Alistair's rather basic melodies in _Righteous Strike_ are more reminiscent of his former work with The Templars than anything revolutionary. He and Cousland work well together (and we all know why that is, nudge nudge), but listening to this album is like listening to one half of a phone conversation; it might be interesting, but only if we could hear more._

_I wish I could give this album a higher rating. Maybe when Alistair starts composing new riffs for Weisshaupt, instead of falling back on simplicity where it doesn't belong. --GH_

_Rating: 6.5/10 stars_

Anders had been holding the mug of coffee to his lips for about fifteen minutes without drinking it, his eyes darting back and forth over the magazine in his hands. His gaze kept returning to that one line: _but let's be real, he's no Anders._

His lips curved into a soft smile.

He had no real right to be pleased with himself. Since The Wardens' final show three years ago, he hadn't touched Justice at all. He was about as inspired to write new music as he was to adopt a dog. (Ugh.)

As if on cue, Pounce jumped up onto the couch and padded her way onto Anders' lap, settling herself squarely between him and the magazine. Anders put down the mug and placed one hand between the tabby cat's shoulderblades, and raised the magazine up with his other hand to skim the album review one more time. The writer knew what they were talking about, that was for sure. Anders had felt the same way about Alistair's lackluster solos when he'd heard the new Weisshaupt single in a restaurant last week, but it was gratifying to hear that his opinions were shared by someone writing for TU, and not just fueled by Anders' own resentment.

The review was attributed to "GH." It was TU's trademark not to give out the full names of their writers, though anyone who was part of the scene knew who most of them were anyway. Anders flipped to the introductory pages of the magazine, where the writers' biographies were printed in boring black and white. No photos; they had to save that room for their excellent concert photography. Anders was familiar with VT: Varric Tethras was the longtime editor-in-chief of TU, and had done one of the very first interviews with The Wardens when they were on the up-and-up. He recognized a few more initials among the writing and photography staff, people who had come to their early shows. "GH"'s bio was near the bottom of the page. Fairly new, then; no wonder Anders didn't recognize them.

_GH is the youngest member of TU's album review crew. He took college courses in creative writing and music theory before following his *very* punk rock dream: dropping out of school. He has worked a variety of day jobs including deliveryman, bouncer, and dog walker. He spends his days driving and listening to music._

Anders smiled lightly at GH's bio. He imagined a young, enthusiastic teenager with a spiked leather jacket, trying desperately to listen to a demo track on his headphones while six dogs pulled him down the street. Well, who was he to call anyone a "kid"? Anders had been only 18 when The Wardens hit their peak, and now at the ripe old age of 23, he could hardly call a published TU album reviewer a "kid."

His phone buzzed in his pocket, spooking Pounce. Anders dropped his magazine and dug around for the phone. It was a text from one of his coworkers, Beth.

_From: Beth  
Hey, are you still down to play with my kids today?? :)_

Anders texted back:  
_yeah, for sure! 11:30, right?_

_From: Beth  
Yes! They are so stoked. Thanks, Andy. See you later!! :)_

Anders figured should probably eat something before heading over. He continued to sip his now room-temperature coffee as he put a slice of leftover pizza into the toaster oven, then went to his bedroom to dig around under his bed.

Behind an empty duffle bag, a pair of flip-flops, and several single socks (those were Pounce's doing), Anders' fingers finally reached the familiar guitar case. He dragged it out from under his bed and looked down it, the smile entirely gone from his face. The three-year-old coating of dust and cat hair stuck to the hard black case did little to ease the guilt and regret building up in his chest.

How had he gone from one of the most highly lauded lead guitarists in the scene to... this? A cramped one-bedroom apartment in the Lowtown district of Kirkwall, his only window blocked by a high-rise. He had traded his bandmates for a temperamental cat; his nights of gigs and partying replaced with takeout food and TV. His guitar case bore dozens of battered stickers stained with beer, tire grease, and the other marks of being on the road for months and months. And then, for almost a year, it had lived under his bed. What the fuck had happened?

He knew what had happened, but he just couldn't bear to think about it.

Anders' hands seemed to move of their own volition, flicking open the latches on the case and lifting the lid. Justice stared up at him mournfully, his blue body dull. _He must be so out of tune,_ Anders thought, and was surprised to find tears forming in his eyes. Cousland had said it was stupid to think of an instrument as a living, breathing thing, but Anders knew differently. He had always thought of Justice as an extension of himself, a way to express through sound what Anders' own heart felt.

He lifted the guitar gently from the soft inner lining and cradled Justice in his arms, as familiar as a lover. Muscle memory and years of repetition took over as he gently plucked each string, carefully adjusting the pegheads until each was in tune. He should probably restring Justice at some point, but he was sure Beth's kids wouldn't be able to tell.

He pressed down on the fretboard and gave Justice a single strum.

Suddenly, his tears blinded him, and he pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes as he let out a sob. His thin frame curled over Justice as he cried, thin keens escaping through his clenched teeth. The sound, the feel of a single chord had brought back all the memories he refused to entertain, thoughts of his irretrievable glory days.

He had met so many people who said that The Wardens had changed their life, that hearing "Ostagar" on the radio was like living in a world of foreign languages and finally hearing someone speak their native tongue. In his mind he saw seas of faces singing, shouting; people reaching out to touch Cousland's extended fingers. He remembered countless trysts with girls and guys in dark corners of afterparties, even after Oghren told him warning stories of what might happen with a girl nine months later.

He even remembered deeper connections than that, late night texting and drunken phone sex with a guy who had spent much more than just one night with him. People who had followed them on the road from show to show, offering their living room floors for the band to sleep on, or even just familiar faces when they revisited the city.

Ever since The Wardens disbanded, Anders felt as if he'd been waking from a wonderful dream. The slow feeling of coming to consciousness, realizing that everything he thought was within his grasp was nothing more than a figment of his imagination... was unbearable. The promise of a lifetime doing what he loved most had been yanked out from under him, and now he was... here. Alone in his apartment, touching his guitar for the first time ages, and _weeping_.

He regained control of himself slowly, grabbing for a tissue from his nightstand and blowing his nose, wiping the tears from his cheeks. He had to pull it together for Beth. A promise was a promise.

*

He hopped off the lurching city bus and walked the two blocks from the bus stop to the Lowtown social services building. Although the exterior was a grim gray like the entire neighborhood, Kirkwall Circle was warm and bright within. Lirene had done a fantastic job sprucing up the ancient building with new lighting, potted plants, and colorful, calming photos along every hallway.

Anders said hi to a couple of his coworkers in the lobby, then spotted Lirene at the end of the hall and gave her a wave. "Morning," he said, setting down his small travel amp and guitar case while he waited for the elevator.

"Good morning, Andy." Lirene adjusted her armful of folders and paperwork. "I don't think I've ever seen you here before noon."

"Yeah, I'm doing a special visit for Beth's kids today."

"Oh, how sweet." The lines on Lirene's face were typical for an extremely busy social worker, but they gave way to a genuine smile. "I hope it won't be too long a day for you, then."

 _What else is there for me to do at home?_ Anders thought with a sigh, but didn't say it. "Well, that's why the Maker invented coffee! See you later." Lirene was intercepted by one of the supervisors, while Anders hopped on the elevator.

The fifth floor was dedicated to childcare, and the walls were filled with drawings and paintings from the center's many young artists. Anders dodged a couple of kids playing tag as a man in gray and orange called, "No running!" Anders waved silently to the mustachioed man, whom he didn't recognize, and the guy said, "'Morning, Andy!"

Anders blinked. Was as groggy before noon as everyone else seemed to think? He looked back at the man, whose back was now turned. It was no use. He walked to the end of the hallway to Beth's preschool classroom.

Beth was sitting cross-legged at the head of a loose ring of children, reading a picture book aloud. Her dark hair was parted neatly to one side, as always. Anders was impressed that she was able to maintain her hairstyle with running after kids all day.

"...And Mr. Wiggums and the mouse enjoyed their picnic. The End. And now..." Beth glanced up at the clock on the wall and saw Anders leaning against the doorframe. She grinned. "It's music time! Can everyone say hello to Mister Andy?"

The dozen preschoolers turned and waved obediently in greeting. The girl next to Beth gasped. "Miss Beth, Miss Beth, is Mister Andy playing guitar today?"

"Yes indeed," Anders smiled. He was met with a resounding group "YAY!"

Beth stood and brushed off her pants, coming over to him as the kids began picking out tambourines and other instruments from a large bin. "They are so looking forward to this, Andy. When the stereo died last week I thought I'd have to sing instead." She made a face.

"I'm sure they would have loved that," Anders assured her, setting down his amp and unfastening the latches on Justice's case. "Hey, who was that down the hall? Mustache, orange shirt?"

She gave him a look from under one raised eyebrow. "Uh, Donnic. Our colleague Donnic. We went to his birthday party this summer?"

"Oh, sh---" Anders cut himself off, glancing at the kids scrabbling around behind Beth. "Shimmy. That mustache must be new. As soon as a man grows a mustache or a beard, my brain believes that he's a completely different person." Beth giggled as he adjusted Justice's strap over his shoulder. "So what's the plan for today? ABCs? 'Old McDonald'?"

Beth had been mid-turn but paused, her eyes fixed on Justice. Anders felt a momentary surge of panic. He had thought that Justice definitely wouldn't attract any attention, not here. His bright blue Stratocaster was certainly unique, and instantly recognizable to anyone who had followed the scene during The Wardens' heyday. Surely calm, pretty Beth -- assistant director of childcare at the Circle -- had no idea who he was. Had been. Right?

Beth blinked and looked back up at Anders, her smile light but something else unreadable just under the surface. Was it mischief? Anders didn't know. "'Baa Baa Black Sheep,' to start. Here, I made you a setlist." She handed Anders a list of nursery rhymes and turned back to her class. Playing these was a little bit like asking the reigning champion of Wicked Grace to outwit a golem, but Anders would never turn down a favor for a friend. He plugged in the amp, gave Justice a few experimental strums, and reminded himself that there were no wild solos or breakdowns in "Bingo Was His Name-O."

"Okay, everyone. On your feet! Alain, don't chew on the cymbal, please. We will start with 'Baa Baa Black Sheep.' One, two, three, and...!

_Baa baa black sheep, have you any wool?  
Yes sir, yes sir, three bags full..."_

*

Later that afternoon, Anders was taking a well-deserved break from his usual Tuesday task of helping endless lines of people fill out job applications at the Circle's employment center. Athenril and Meeran were arguing in the lounge, so he was sitting on the couch in the hallway, trying to peel an orange and untangle his headphones at the same time.

"Hey, Andy." Beth called to him as she came down the hall. It must have been four o'clock, if she was done with the kids. "Thanks again for today. The kids really loved it. Ella says you're a rockstar," she added, with a bit of a glint in her eyes.

"Anytime. It was fun," he responded, and meant it. He supposed he couldn't jump right back to sold-out venues and shredding with showers of sparks flying everywhere. Plus, the kids dancing around and screaming "B- I- N-G-O!" had made him laugh, and he had almost wanted to sing along too. In any case, it was a welcome break from the usual piles of paperwork and stressed-out people whom he usually worked with.

"I don't know if you play stuff besides nursery rhymes," Beth teased, "but my brother has been trying to get a band together, and he's looking for a guitarist." She rummaged around in her pocket and held out a scrap of paper. Anders had seen thousands like it before.

_WANTED: lead guitarist for new pop-punk project. Influences: The Wardens, Fifth Blight, The Calling. Call or text Hawke._

The name of his old band made Anders' stomach leap, and he felt as if he'd been zapped. Thinking about his old life twice in one day was not good for his nerves, apparently. He cleared his throat, realizing that he should probably say something to Beth. "I, uh... I always thought of Fifth Blight as more post-hardcore than pop-punk," he stammered.

Beth gave a delighted laugh. "Ha! Oh Maker, you sound _just_ like him. You've got to text him, even just to nerd out about music. He'll love you." Again, that playful glint arose in her eyes, though Anders missed it. He was still staring down at the paper.

"Anyway, I know he's doing auditions this weekend and next weekend in his friend's basement, because it's the only thing he'll talk about. I understand if you're really busy, though. Hope the rest of your shift goes well!" Beth squeezed his shoulder and headed for the elevator.

Anders sank back onto the couch, his earbuds and orange forgotten. Playing songs for preschoolers was one thing, but playing for-- no, _with_ someone who considered him an _influence_... Maker. He had no idea how to feel about that. It would probably be super awkward, and they'd spend the whole time asking him about The Wardens... about Cousland. He pushed that thought away before it could take hold.

Then again, it had felt _really good_ to play today. Baby steps, literally, but wasn't that what Anders needed? Like atrophied muscles, he'd need to take it slow if he wanted to build up his guitar chops once more. And the thought of a new project with no pressure, a couple of casual musicians, and (most importantly) no Cousland seemed refreshing and appealing.

Anders punched Hawke's number into his phone, but didn't text yet. He had to slow down the hammering of his heart first.


	3. You're thinking about what I've given up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawke gets a magical email and prepares for band auditions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I spent a lot of time revising Chapter 2, adding in details that I know I want to be there later, and plotting out the next couple of chapters. I also wrote a few choice vignettes that I know we won't see until the end, but I'm excited to share them with you eventually.
> 
> Please feel free follow me on Tumblr (@dualwieldteacup) to stalk my ["Taking Back Kirkwall" tag](http://dualwieldteacup.tumblr.com/tagged/tbk), though be cautious if you aren't caught up on the latest chapter. Happy New Year and thank you for reading!
> 
> recommended listening:  
> [Jack's Mannequin - "The Mixed Tape"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WdW48xSbb9s) ([lyrics](http://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/jacksmannequin/themixedtape.html))

Garrett's eyes were closed as his hands drifted over the fretboard, pressing down chords as his right hand strummed lightly. He liked the structure of this latest song, though it still didn't sound quite whole yet. He had written out a basic melody for the breakdown, but he knew that it was way too simple. Any attempts to beef it up only resulted in him borrowing melodies from his favorite songs and throwing his guitar down, feeling like a hack.

As much as it pained Garrett to admit it, he loved the science behind songwriting, and loved writing about the merits of bands' compositions for work. But he was a piss-poor songwriter himself, which pained him more than he cared to admit. His mom had told him repeatedly that you didn't need to be a master chef in order to be a food writer (waving one of her colorful cooking magazines as she spoke), but it still sucked.

This was how the band usually wrote songs: Fenris figured out the chord progressions on his bass while he and Isabela created the vocal melody, and all Garrett had to do was fill in the chords on his guitar. They sounded good together, especially with Merrill kicking ass on drums and being endlessly patient while they messed around with the other pieces, but what they really needed to get to the next level was a lead guitarist who could solo. Garrett's huge hands were not made with dexterity in mind. They needed someone with a light touch and a great sense of melody who could bring Garrett's half-sketched ideas to life.

With a sigh, he set his guitar on the bed, pulled his glasses down from his forehead, and got up to check his work email. It was mostly newsletters from record labels and bands that he subscribed to, with a couple of messages from new groups who wanted him to review their demos. Near the top was a message from his boss with a file transfer notification.

_Hey Garrett,_

_Here's your latest assignment, an EP from a band called Golden Scythe 4:90 Black. They're from Lothering, so I thought you would be interested._

_Do me a favor and don't get too personal with this one. I'm still fielding backlash from that Weisshaupt review last week. Nothing I can't handle, though._

_Cheers,  
Varric_

Garrett downloaded the files, scoffing a bit at the band's name. It seemed to him that bands nowadays were naming themselves, their albums, and their songs random jumbles of words, and sometimes whole sentences, just for the weirdness of it. What happened to the beloved formula The Something, as Bethany had once said? It was easy to remember. No one was going to go into a record store and ask for "the new Golden Scythe 4:90 Black EP."

Well, not that people went into record stores anymore. The industry changed along with the technology. Rather than receiving actual demo CDs in the mail, and getting to meditate over the cover art and liner notes while flopped on his couch, Garrett received file transfers online and did all his writing over email with Varric, where it got turned into glossy print in TU a month later. It was efficient, but it just wasn't the same.

He scratched his belly, noting the definite swell around his midsection in the threadbare t-shirt. Somehow he couldn't bring himself to admit that he'd put on fifty pounds and several more inches since high school. The thought of buying new clothes when he had drawers stuffed with band t-shirts that _barely_ still fit was... unthinkable. It was usually fine if he threw a flannel on top, anyway.

He was about to turn off his laptop to retrieve said flannel when a new message arrived that caught his attention. _From: a.kristoffson@tmail.com, Subj: "Weisshaupt album review"_ Curious, he opened the message.

_Dear GH,_

_I wanted to say thank you from the bottom of my heart for your recent review of _Righteous Strike_. As you may imagine, I've felt pretty disconnected from the scene since The Wardens broke up. It means a lot to hear that I'm still remembered favorably. And I won't lie: your analysis of Alistair's work made me smile. (I'm pretty sure that the solo from the 3rd track is note-for-note the same one from that first Templars single... but I digress.)_

_I read your review on the same day that a friend inspired me to get back into music, so I'm feeling pretty optimistic about the future. Thanks again for the kind shoutout. I look forward to reading more of your work._

_Best wishes,  
Anders Kristoffson_

Garrett could feel his pulse in his ribcage, in both wrists, in his temples. _Maker's breath._ When he'd written that review a couple of weeks ago, Varric had questioned whether it was necessary to compare the two guitarists, especially considering that no one had thought about Anders in years. _I think about him every day,_ Garrett had almost said, then thought better of it.

He read the email again, scarcely daring to believe it. After the third reread, he jumped up from his chair - sending it crashing - and let out an undignified whoop of hysterical laughter. This-- _this_ was why he had become a music writer! Not for the free CDs or the cash. He wanted to bridge the gap between the music he heard and what people felt, wanted to tell the world exactly how genius an obscure lyric's meaning really was, how a chord pattern was so revolutionary as to be historical. And to have that acknowledged by someone whom he had revered since he was a teenager, someone whom he'd seen play on the very day he announced he was going to become a music writer... it was just too much.

He went to flop down exultantly on his bed, but his guitar was there, so he moved it gingerly to lean against the wall before throwing himself down on the mattress with another delighted shout. Was this how Carver had felt when the girl he liked in high school had given him her number? The fluttering of his heart and the irrepressible smile on his face, the way his brawny arms seemed to be clasped for the rest of eternity in front of his chest... He was laugh-crying, he realized, and he shoved his glasses up to wipe tears out of his beard. _I made Anders smile._

"Andraste's blessed bosom," he whispered to no one. Anders, _the_ Anders, whose photo was still in Garrett's wallet (because who has time to clean out their wallet, ever?), was getting back into the scene, and in some small way, Garrett had been a part of that. He lay there for a while, turning the thought over and over in his head like a treasure.

Then, thinking of guitars and bands and his plans for tonight, he shoved his glasses back onto his face and fumbled around for his phone. Maker, it was a piece of crap, even worse than the car. It was a discontinued model, and somehow Garrett had gotten the settings locked such that it no longer capitalized or spellchecked, and put a space before every piece of punctuation. Bethany said that it was a miracle he was a paid writer, since his texts read like they were from an illiterate potato.

_yo are we meeting at 7 tonihgt ?_

_From: Fenris  
6:30. It would be a good idea to run our songs at least once before the first person gets here._

_cool , see yuo soon then_

Shit, it was already 6. He could take a half-assed shower, but what was the point? They were going to get gross playing for hours in Fenris's basement anyway.

He read the email from Anders one last time, grinning like a maniac, then shut his computer. He didn't want to blow his cool by responding too soon. He found his flannel draped over the arm of the couch, his car keys under the latest TU, and his shoes near the fridge where he'd kicked them off last night. He grabbed his guitar and half a leftover sandwich from the fridge, and headed downstairs to the garage.

His father's battered brown car was undeniably the worst-looking vehicle in the apartment's parking level, but Garrett joked that just made it easier to find. He asked his mom recently how the thing was still running, to which she had replied with a deadpan expression, "Your father was a wizard."

Whatever the reason, he was grateful to have a working car, because it meant that he could use it for taxi driving four nights a week, and get to and from band practice on Saturdays. The brown paint on the passenger side doors now had a flashy Kirkwall Cabs decal adorning it, and even after years and years, the thing went from Point A to Point B. That was the only thing that mattered (unless you asked Carver, who would immediately start talking about rims and spoilers and who knows what else).

Garrett turned on his radio, mindlessly ate the sandwich, smiled idiotically as he thought about Anders' email, and poked along through Saturday night Lowtown traffic to get to the part of the district that bordered Hightown. This was where Fenris lived alone in an absurdly nice condo, and for some reason had access to the basement of his high-rise building, which was where the band practiced.

He headed through the basement access door and thumped down a creepy, ill-lit flight of stairs to the practice space, where he could hear Merrill working on a lick.

"Sup," he called, setting his gig bag down on a nearby crate and unzipping it.

"Good evening, Hawke! I made cookies for us!" Merrill waved a stick from where she sat at her kit. She was small, the size of a puny 13-year-old, but she somehow had enough strength and energy to play drums for hours at a time. Her dark hair was in a pixie cut that framed her heart-shaped face.

"Wow, thanks!" Merrill's baked goods were always a welcome addition to weekly practice. Garrett went over to the small tray of sugar cookies near Merrill's bag and coat, and picked out one decorated like a daisy. It tasted heavenly, and he told Merrill so. She smiled and tried to twirl a drumstick, but it went flying into one corner and behind an enormous stack of boxes. Fenris rolled his eyes.

"I am glad you confirmed the time with me," Fenris told him in his usual level growl, not looking up from his notebook. He sat on a crate with his sleeves rolled up to expose the white tattoos that covered his arms and neck. A shock of white hair was sticking out from under his hood. "It would not do to have our own guitarist late for tryouts."

"I was never gonna be _late_ , dude, I would have gotten here before 7," Garrett replied around a mouthful of cookie. He got his amp out of the large storage cabinet under the stairs and began dragging other equipment over to the central space. "Besides, Isabela isn't even here yet."

Fenris's features relaxed, and Garrett knew he'd won. Fenris had a soft spot for Isabela ("more like a _hard spot_ , am I right?" he'd joked once, and received an elbow in the ribs in response). Isabela was a fantastic singer, but she was even worse about timeliness than Garrett was.

As if on cue, they heard the door at the top of the stairs crash open. "Helloooooooo lovelies," Isabela's voice rang out. She sauntered down the stairs, and Fenris finally looked up from his notebook, his facial expression marginally less severe than before. Garrett scoffed but didn't dare say anything while Fenris's elbows were so close. Isabela shucked her lacy cardigan to reveal a shimmery blue top and a cream-colored skirt, somehow looking lovely in the basement's unflattering fluorescent lighting. Even on her nights off from bartending, she still dressed to kill. No wonder Fenris was helpless around her.

"Hi, Bela," Garrett and Fenris said.

"Good evening, Isabela. Have a cookie!" Merrill called.

"Thank you, Kitten, I will." She chose a leaf-patterned sugar cookie and placed it in her lips with deliberate slowness, maintaining eye contact with Fenris the whole time. Garrett watched him squirm slightly and was glad that his huge beard hid his smile. "How many people are auditioning tonight?" she asked.

"Eleven," Garrett grumbled, trying not to feel exhausted at the sheer thought of it. "A bunch of guys from Craigslist, a few people who saw my flyer at the coffee shop, and a coworker of Bethany's."

Fenris snorted at the last bit. "Somehow I can't imagine a preschool teacher _shredding_."

"Says the fucking property manager," Garrett replied, and everyone except Fenris laughed. He gave Garrett a _you got me_ look from under his bangs, though. For the four years he'd known Fenris, he had gotten used to his tattooed friend's constant glowering and surly demeanor, and Fenris had come to understand that Garrett's teasing was his way of showing his fondness. Their solid friendship was proof that a taxi driver slash college dropout could connect with a property manager slash bodyguard with a sketchy past, as long as music was involved.

They spent a couple of minutes tuning and warming up, Isabela trilling at the top of her range and massaging her cheeks in a way that always made Merrill giggle. Then Garrett brushed the cookie crumbs out of his beard and called them to order. He thought briefly about telling them about the message from Anders, but decided against it. It would seem like bragging, and besides, he didn't feel like sharing Anders with anyone just yet.

"Let's start with 'Portraits of the Past,' then 'Pirates and Their Curses.' Remember we decided to take the breakdown of 'Portraits' halftime, Merrill." She nodded. Hawke made eye contact with each of them, then swung the neck of his guitar up in a nonverbal countoff, and they launched into the song.


	4. Alone I could barely light a match, but together we can burn this place down.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anders meets the band.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My heart goes "!!!" every time I see a notification for new comments and kudos. I am flabbergasted that this already has more than 100 hits, and I'm so grateful to all of you for diving into this AU with me.
> 
> This chapter is twice as long as any of the preceding chapters, but there's a lot to cover and I couldn't bring myself to cut anything. I think the next few chapters will all be back in the ~2-3k words range. I just really enjoyed writing Anders in all of these scenes.
> 
> Please feel free to stalk my "Taking Back Kirkwall" tag [here](http://dualwieldteacup.tumblr.com/tagged/tbk), though be cautious if you aren't caught up! I love you all tremendously. Thank you for reading!
> 
> Recommended listening (for the two pieces played midway through this chapter):  
> [Four Year Strong - "Heroes Get Remembered, Legends Never Die"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6R5ysL36BGg) ([lyrics](http://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/fouryearstrong/heroesgetrememberedlegendsneverdie.html))  
> [Park - "The Trophy Wife"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xTBA1KrROO8) ([lyrics](http://www.plyrics.com/lyrics/park/thetrophywife.html))

The crowded Saturday evening bus squealed to a halt in front of a series of steel high-rises just as they passed out of Lowtown, and Anders hopped off. He shifted Justice to his other hand and checked his texts with Hawke to make sure that the address was right. He'd expected a narrow brown or grey apartment building in a series of identical, cramped structures, similar to the ones the bus had passed on the way through Lowtown. This towering building was all metal and glass, more suited to a rich politician or business executive than a punk rock 20-something. _black door in the lobby leads to th basemnet stairs , can 't miss it !_ Hawke had written. The early autumn wind was only going to get colder, so Anders hefted Justice and climbed the stairs to the front door.

It was a stupidly nice interior, the kind of place that he might have been able to afford if he were still making gig money on the regular. Creamy marble floors and plush rugs underfoot, with an austere modern chandelier hanging over the receptionist's desk. The blond woman was reading a book, but she looked up at him and politely gestured over to a few benches and plush chairs by the windows, where a few people in some combination of hoodies, black band t-shirts, Chucks, and Vans - and, invariably, skinny jeans - were waiting with guitar cases at their feet. They all looked incredibly out of place in the polished, austere lobby, and they stayed close enough to one another for comfort, even if they didn't make eye contact. Anders was relieved to see that none of them were wearing Wardens shirts.

He thanked the receptionist and headed over to an empty spot on a sleek leather-topped bench, which was likely more expensive than all his apartment furniture combined. He kept his headphones on to distract himself, but he wasn't really listening. He was terrified, which was stupid. What was there to be scared of? He had been one of the most inventive and accomplished guitarists in the scene at the age of 16, but he hadn't practiced in three straight years and oh Maker he was going to make a fool of himself. He closed his eyes, took a few deep breaths.

He had spent the past several nights restringing Justice (and almost cried again after giving him an experimental strum, because he sounded a trillion times better with new strings), trying out a few of his more favorite solos, and getting frustrated that his fingers were able to handle "Baa Baa Black Sheep" but were too out of practice to pull off "Nature of the Beast" with next to no notice. He also listened repeatedly to the two demo tracks that Hawke linked him to on a Bardspace page. Two rather different pieces, Anders thought, which was unusual for a new band. New groups' songs tended to sound kind of same-y, but the two pieces for his audition were at the melodic and punk end of melodic hardcore, then a rather retrospective piece that was more rock-ish, with a hint of emo influence.

He had wondered briefly what GH would make of them.

On Saturday afternoon, there was a lot of stressful pacing up and down his narrow apartment as he listened to the demo tracks again on his headphones, with Pounce chirruping curiously and positioning herself in inconvenient places between his feet. Before leaving for the bus stop, he burnt a piece of toast because he was checking that Justice was in tune for the fourth time (and _hot damn_ did those fresh strings sound nice), then decided he was too amped up to eat anyway. Maker, he was a mess.

He snapped back to the present as somebody came out of the black door against the opposite wall. A girl with a pixie cut popped her head out and called somebody in, the door closed, and they all sat and waited for the door to open again. This cycle repeated itself several times. Anders undid and redid his ponytail repeatedly until he realized that all he was doing was making his hair staticky, and left it alone. Then he checked to see that the drawstrings on his hoodie were even (sort of) and deliberately picked an alarming amount of Pounce's orange hairs off the front of his pants one at a time. When he was finished with this elaborate grooming session, he looked up and saw that there were still three people ahead of him. He suppressed a groan.

It was just past 10:00 when the last person before Anders left, looking frazzled, and the pixie cut girl opened the black door and met Anders' eyes. "We're ready for you!" she called.

Anders hopped up, grabbed Justice, and followed her through the door. They made their way down a dark staircase, and she spoke over her shoulder. "You're our last hope-- er-- audition tonight," she said lightly. "I shouldn't have said 'last hope.' Don't tell Hawke I said that. My name is Merrill. I play drums."

"Nice to meet you, Merrill," Anders said, unable to help smiling a little. He found himself in a huge, warm storage space with high ceilings, a ratty gray carpet underfoot, and crates and boxes stacked around the walls. The lighting above the stairs was shit, but fluorescent bulbs hung down above the central area where the band had cleared away boxes and set up their equipment. The particularly charged smell of _band practice sweat_ hit Anders hard with a wave of nostalgia, and he nearly tripped taking the last stair. Three other people were seated on folding chairs, chatting and goofing off.

"Here's our last victim!" Merrill announced, walking past Anders to sit on her stool, and giving him a chance to look at the four bandmates at once. Although they were clearly exhausted from hours of tryouts, they wore the sheen of labor and accomplishment well. They seemed youthful, happy, totally oblivious to what a total fucking trainwreck he was. It made him glad that he had taken the time to brush off all the cat hair.

The guy closest to the bass raised one hand briefly in greeting while bouncing one leg idly. "I am Fenris," he said in a low, grating rumble. His dark skin that contrasted with the white tattoos engraved in a curving, branch-like pattern all up his arms. His hair was a shock of flawless white that _had_ to have been bleached.

"Isabela," said the girl in the center of the space, drinking something hot out of a travel mug. She had the mic stand between her feet and was playing with it, making it tip from side to side. There was a gold piercing in her lower lip that she flicked playfully with her tongue as she looked Anders up and down. It was unnerving but not entirely unpleasant. "You look familiar. Do you come to The Pearl very often? That's where I bartend." Anders noticed that Fenris had suddenly stopped bouncing his leg.

"Oh, um, not for ages." The Wardens had played The Pearl a while back, maybe a few months before that huge show at The Deep Roads. Anders desperately tried to remember whether he had hooked up with anyone after the gig, but he was having trouble thinking with both Fenris and Isabela's eyes fixed on him like lasers.

"Really? I feel like I--" She gasped suddenly, her dark eyes wide and wicked. "Weren't you there that night when the girl with the griffon tattoo--"

Anders was saved from a reply by the last band member, a burly guy in a red flannel, who laughed, "Don't get Isabela started on her illustrious history, she'll just..." He trailed off. He had been fiddling with a tangled cable, but he dropped it when he finally looked up at Anders. It was difficult to gauge the man's expression behind his bushy dark facial hair and thick-rimmed glasses, but Anders thought the fleeting expression in his eyes was something between astonishment, horror, and recognition.

 _Oh no oh no oh no here it comes,_ Anders thought slightly hysterically, barely holding back a flinch. _He's going to say, "Andraste's flaming sword, aren't you Anders from The Wardens?! Wow, you played with Cousland, that must have been amazing! Can you play 'Ostagar' for us? Would you sign my vinyl copy of--"_

But instead, the guy stood, which was instantly distracting. He was _huge_ , the kind of person who commanded the attention of a room without needing to speak. 6'6", if not more, with the musculature of a wrestler, or maybe an ancient battle god. Looking at him, Anders felt like a kitten face-to-face with a bear on its hind legs. The man's untidy thick black hair swooped in several directions at once, and it was worse when he ran a hand through his bangs. Andraste's socks, when had Anders' knees gotten so wobbly? It was just his nerves. Definitely nerves.

The look of mild surprise had given way to disbelief, and Anders had the impression that the man was confirming the identity of the bony, sunken-eyed, copper-haired individual before him. He considered Anders briefly with inscrutable blue eyes before nudging his glasses up onto his nose with one knuckle. Anders was a goner.

"I'm, uh, Hawke."

They shook hands, Anders feeling rather skeletal as Hawke's hand must have been twice the size of his own. He tried very hard not to hang on longer than strictly necessary, fighting down the instinct to keep a hold of Hawke's hand. It was warm and only slightly sweaty. He savored the moment, wondering when was the last time he'd held hands with another person. Helping old ladies into and out of the Circle elevator certainly did not count.

"Anders."

He could have sworn that he heard a soft intake of breath from under the dark beard. Before Anders could react with a look of pleading caution, Hawke loosened his grip, clenched that same hand in a fist, and then shoved it into the pocket of his jeans. What was visible of his cheeks above the beardline had turned a delicate, definite pink. Watching this enormous man adapt the body language of a shy teenager was fascinating, and Anders found it hard to look away. But he forced himself to turn back to the assembled group. If Hawke was going to say something, to reveal what he knew to his bandmates, the time had passed.

"...So Anders," said Isabela, who had watched their exchange, innocent as a fox. "Would you tell us a little bit about yourself before we begin?"

"Sure, um." Anders looked at each of them in turn as he spoke, though his eyes kept flickering back to Hawke. His face was even harder to read now, as he was back in the flimsy folding chair and taking a long drink from an enormous water bottle. "I've been playing guitar for about 8 years, and I played a bunch of shows with... with a couple of friends for a year or two." Hawke had a brief but chaotic coughing fit. Fenris looked irritated. Anders continued, "But, uh, it didn't work out and the band split up. So I'm looking to get back into music after a little break."

"That's so lovely," sighed Merrill. "Even if things don't work out with us, Anders, I hope you're able to begin playing again. Oh!! Would you like a cookie?"

"No cookies," Fenris snarled, standing and picking up his bass. Hawke had taken a moment to recap his bottle and clear his throat (though his cheeks were still a little rosy), and he and Isabela followed suit. "Anders, you can use this amp. You were able to listen to both of the songs we linked you to?" Anders nodded. "Good. We'll play them now, first 'Portraits of the Past' and then 'Pirates and Their Curses.' Solo if you want at the intro and breakdown, and add whatever you like during the verses. Watch Hawke for your cues."

Anders nodded, took Justice out of his case, and flung the strap around his back in one familiar motion. Hawke, if possible, turned an even darker pink and coughed into his elbow. There was now zero doubt in Anders' mind that Hawke knew _exactly_ who he was. For some reason he wasn't saying anything, but Anders was grateful for it. He wanted the band to judge him for how he was about to play, not what they thought of his playing from several years ago.

He plugged into the amp and stepped back, making the final part of a circle formed by himself and the four other band members. Goosebumps rippled up his arms, and he took a moment to shove the sleeves of his threadbare hoodie up to his elbows. Hawke counted off in a murmur, "1, 2," and on the next beat, they were playing.

The demo track just had Merrill's drums for a few measures before Hawke came on guitar, so Anders played a little line, nothing special, but in keeping with the melodic punk feel of the piece. He saw Fenris and Hawke make eye contact before they joined in, and wondered if they were having some nonverbal communication about him or just lining up their entrances. He repeated the line as Fenris and Hawke entered and Merrill launched into a heavier beat, pulling off rapid, heavy doubles on her bass drum as easy as whistling.

Isabela began to sing, a rough edge to her voice but quite melodic:

"Oh, something tells me I'm never gonna live this one down, but I'll try  
but I'm gonna need a quick hand, a sharp eye, a smooth talker  
Just to play this one out to the very end..." 

As she did, Anders played around a bit, going along with Hawke's power chords but adding a few little hammer-ons here and there to make things interesting. Then some thematic lines heading into the bridge, and a fun pinch harmonic to add a sort of squealing effect heading into the chorus. He imagined what would sound good and his fingers obeyed before he even had a chance to overthink it.

He knew that the rest of the band was all trying to concentrate both on playing the song and on listening to what he was doing, which was always hard. He needed to demonstrate that he had listened to the track beforehand, that he was able to go along with the chord structure and progression of the piece, and that he was adding something substantial that wasn't there before.

 _Maker_ , this was wonderful. It felt like diving into a pool after years in the desert. He had missed this more than he thought possible.

His fear and reservations fled as he continued to play, eyes falling half-shut as his hands flew across Justice in fluid movements. Into every stroke and chord, he channeled the desire to prove himself, to erase the weight of three years' guilt and despondency. By the time the breakdown rolled around, and Hawke gave a slight nod in his direction, Anders was not entirely surprised that they jumped and headbanged entirely in unison. He let Merrill's high hats and Fenris' driving bassline roll over him as he threw in just one more harmonic... then, all too soon, the song was over, and the silence rang in Anders' ears.

The five of them were breathing heavily, chests heaving and hair wild. They stood like that for about twenty seconds, catching their breath and absorbing what had just happened. It wasn't mindblowing by any means, but it had sounded damned good, and Anders knew that they all knew it.

Merrill looked like she was about to say something, but Hawke cut her off with a nod to Fenris, who began the bassline for "Pirates and Their Curses."

Anders really liked the structure and feel of this one. The track had a lot of potential for a strong melodic line, so he filled in the gaps in the intro obediently. After Hawke laid out the basic line, Anders came in at Merrill's entrance to introduce the melody he had come up with a few days ago. It was quite good and fit the song well, if he said so himself, and on the repeat, he let his gaze drift upwards to gauge the others' reactions. Out of the corner of his eye, Fenris and Hawke shared a significant glance.

He listened as Isabela sang, more tenderly than before:

"Hold me up to the brightest light  
Where you've made me all but blind  
And your scheming fingertips  
Dance across my shoulder blades..."

Anders listened carefully to her words as he played along with Hawke, adding crunchy notes atop his chords through the vrse. He was delighted to hear Hawke and Fenris doing background vocals during the chorus, a harmonized "bada, bada, bada" that supported Isabela's lower notes. At a moment's thought, he threw in a little line to finish off the repeat on the chorus, rounding it out so the repeat wasn't so abrupt. It fit perfectly.

There was a smile across his face that Anders couldn't have forced down if he tried. Between verses, he repeated his awesome melody line, even though his weakened fingers were beginning to protest. There had been a time when his left hand was so callused that he almost lost the feeling in his fingertips. It felt like hard but deserved punishment to whip his hands back into shape.

"Call me out to the darkest night  
Where you've left me small and shy  
Your fleeting blasé kiss  
Turns me into what I hate..."

He played the line once more under Isabela's soft vocals at the bridge, and was even brave enough to join in softly on the backing vocals for the last chorus. Merrill gave him a vigorous nod from behind her kit.

Isabela wrung out a guttural feel from the final words - "poured out naked onto the floor" - and cut off with a dramatic toss of her head. The outro was brief but powerful, and the reverb rippled out towards the ceiling and walls. The only sound was that of five people taking gasping, almost obscene sounding breaths. Anders dared to look up and saw Hawke and Fenris' eyes locked tensely once more, while the girls looked back and forth between them, and then to Anders, expressions of sheer joy on their faces.

"That was _so sexy_ ," Isabela whispered.

Merrill threw her sticks to the ground and clapped, then squeezed her hands together in a universal gesture of delight. "That was the best we've _ever_ sounded, _ever_!" she cried. "Oh, can we keep him, please?"

Anders smiled shyly at the ground, running his fingers over Justice for lack of anything else to do with his hands.

"Hawke," Fenris said. The single word carried weight, asked a question, nudged the other man to gauge his reaction.

"Let's talk about it in a sec," Hawke answered flatly, and turned fractionally to Anders, though he was looking more at his Vans than at the other guitarist. "Thanks for coming out tonight. We'll be in touch over--"

"Wait, _what_?" Isabella interrupted. "Hawke, you can't be serious. Anders outplayed every single person we heard tonight _and_ last weekend _and_ the weekend before that! Our songs sound like real, full songs, for Maker's sake! I mean... we sounded _damn_ good, and by _we_ I mean the five of us." She paused and gave Anders a furtive wink. "Right?"

"It's true, it's really true," Merrill agreed, the tone of her voice akin to asking her father if they could take home a puppy. "Anders, those melodies were quite lovely. It sounded like they were written for the song!! I mean, you _did_ write them for the song, but--" she flapped her hands, "you know what I mean."

"Thank you both," Anders said warmly.

"Hawke?" Fenris prompted again.

Hawke unslung his guitar and shoved his glasses up to massage his eyes. He looked positively wrung out, sweat crawling down his neck and forehead. Anders was hesitant to leave, to remove himself from the infectious energy in this space, and also from the sight of Hawke's forearms where the rolled-up sleeves of his flannel exposed his muscular limbs.

"Let's-- let's just... Can we please talk about this in private?"

Merrill began, "Hawke--"

"Pleaselet'swaituntilheleaves," Hawke repeated in a rush, scrunching his eyes into his knuckles.

Isabela kicked over the mic stand in a sudden show of frustration. "Come onnnnnnnnn, Hawke, Anders is the best damned guitarist we have _ever_ heard in person and you know it. What he did tonight on a week's notice was incredible! He would be a tremendous asset to the band and you know it, and I'm not sure why we have to dance around the issue." She paused for breath. "Okay okay okay, how about this? Anders, you're a mindblowingly talented guitarist, and most of us are already in love with you," Anders couldn't help a grin, "but just to be sure we like you, and that you like us, we'd like to take you out for a stiff drink because we're all _fucking exhausted_. Yes?" She glanced back and forth from Anders to Hawke, who made a noise like a wounded animal.

A beat. Two beats. Fenris made a minute movement of his hand.

Hawke sighed. "Fine," he muttered from between his wrists.

Merrill cheered and Isabela pumped her fist in the air. Fenris's expression was as close to smiling as Anders had seen it all night, and although Hawke was still standing in a posture of defeat, he softened slightly when Fenris came over and touched the giant man's shoulder.

 _Well, this is off to a wonderful start!_ Anders thought cynically, but he was smiling. "Let's do it."

*

The Hanged Man was back on the other side of the invisible divide between Hightown and Lowtown. They wouldn't all fit in one car with both his and Hawke's guitars, so after the clumsy putting away of cables and amps and drums and stuff into storage cabinets, Fenris and Isabela walked down to Hawke's car, while Anders took a ride with Merrill. She drove one of those petite two-person vehicles that was about the size of a shoe, but surprisingly comfortable inside. She had the good grace to turn down the vaguely Celtic harp album that was blasting from the car's small speakers.

The cool night air from the lowered window made the loose hairs around his face fly around, batting at his cheeks. Anders couldn't recall what they talked about - mostly pleasantries and praise from Merrill, and murmured thanks and answers on his end. He was still thrumming with electric energy, buzzing with the almost-forgotten sensation of pride that came from playing well. It was really not about the need to impress others; as long as Anders played well enough to suit his own standards, everyone around him would be fine.

(That had not been the case, of course, with Cousland. But he didn't need to ruin his fantastic mood by thinking about her.)

He was just beginning to cramp in the awkward position he had to hold himself in such that Justice wasn't poking him in the eye, when they arrived in front of an unimpressive, dimly lit establishment. The other three were getting out of an implausibly brown car that looked old enough to be Anders' grandfather. Merrill waved to them unnecessarily as Anders squeezed Justice down as far as he would go, and covered him with a flowery blanket from behind the seat. He felt a little weird leaving his instrument in the car of someone he'd just met, but it was certainly better than bringing Justice into the bar.

The Hanged Man was a rancid, sticky sort of place, and Anders liked it at once. The bar had the old and worn feel of a place that had seen endless camaraderie, countless brawls, and too many ill-advised kisses to count. The other four musicians were clearly regulars, because they greeted the bouncer just inside the door and headed straight to the crowded bar. Anders had to pat around his pockets for his ID.

When he had negotiated his way past the bouncer and squeezed past what looked like a bachelor party, the others were holding dog-eared drink menus and chatting excitedly. (Except for Hawke, who was kind of glowering at nothing.) Anders stepped into the small space between him and Merrill.

"We're all doing one of the same drink, to celebrate!" Merrill explained to him.

"To celebrate...?"

"You! We decided that we like you, and if you're willing, we'd--"

Fenris interrupted her as Anders opened his mouth in astonishment. "Wait! You can't have this conversation without a drink in hand."

"Mmmmm, how about..." Isabela ran her finger down the sheaf of paper. "'MAKER'S BREATH - absinthe and champagne'?"

"Knickerweasels, _absinthe_? I thought the idea was to celebrate, not hallucinate," Anders replied, still trying to sort out Merrill's interrupted news. Perhaps it would be easier to process with alcohol.

She piped up, "Ooh, 'ADDER'S KISS - vodka, mint, and strawberry schnapps on ice.' That sounds lovely!"

"Oh, shall we pack our picnic baskets and grab our parasols too?" Hawke grumbled. Anders couldn't help a small smile, which he tried to hide behind his hand. He was conscious of how close his bare forearm was to Hawke's, because he could feel heat radiating from the other man in waves.

Hawke cleared his throat and continued to browse the menu. "'THE JOINING - a shot of Lyrium, _two_ shots of Darkspawn Blood, and 151-proof rum, _on fire_ '?! Oh _Maker_ ," he groaned, sounding revolted.

" _YES._ We're doing it." Isabela slapped the menu on the bar and caught the bartender's eye. Before Hawke could stop her, she said, "Norah, babe, Five Joinings please! Hehe, that sounds naughty." Hawke rolled his eyes, but Fenris just cleared his throat.

They all watched with a mix of fascination and horror as the bartender poured out several measures of a viscous reddish-black liquor into five glass beer mugs. Then she poured ice-blue liquor into five shot glasses, topped with a bit of clear liquor over the back of a spoon. She laid one mug and one shot glass in front of each them.

"Here's how this works," Norah said loudly over the noise of the unruly bachelor's entourage. "Everyone take a mug. I light the shot, you drop it into the mug, and drink the whole thing as fast as you can. Oh, just one sec, I need to find the lighter," she realized, and bustled off to the other end of the bar.

As she retreated, Hawke did the thing where he talked to Anders but didn't really look at him. "We... the..." He cleared his throat. "We were very impressed with what you did tonight. Your... past experience is impressive, as is your talent for adding melody to make solid contributions to our songs," he said stiffly. "And we would like to invite you to be our new guitarist."

Anders couldn't see over Hawke's hulking shoulders, so he was unable to gauge Fenris's reaction. Merrill, however, gave a small squeak from behind him, and Isabela was kneeling above Hawke on a barstool and mouthing exaggeratedly to him, "SAY YES!"

"I... I can honestly say that tonight was one of the best nights I've had in ages, and playing your songs was really... fun," he finished lamely, for lack of a better word. "I would he honored to spend my Saturday nights with you."

Isabela cheered. Fenris' voice over Hawke's shoulders sounded, "Excellent." Merrill gave his arm a little squeeze. Hawke just... nodded. Anders wondered what the conversation with Fenris and Isabela had been like in Hawke's car, and at the bar with Merrill while Anders was occupied with the bouncer. What had the others said to change Hawke's mind? Anders was curious, of course, but even more interested in the part of himself which was determined to like Hawke even though the man could barely look at him.

Norah returned with a long lighter and asked if they were ready. "The last time I had a flaming drink, my beard caught on fire," Hawke mumbled under his breath. Anders snorted as everyone took hold of a beer mug. The Darkspawn Blood was swirling unsettlingly at the bottom. He sniffed it: something between black raspberry and chocolate.

The bartender flipped the lighter into her palm, flicked it to life, and touched the flame gently to the shots of Lyrium. The flames sprang up easily, and huge. Isabela squealed in delight.

"To Anders!" she screamed. Fenris, Merrill, and even Hawke echoed her, and Anders just grinned before they all dropped the flaming Lyrium into the Darkspawn Blood and raised their glasses to their lips.

The cocktail seemed to sear his throat with sweet fire. Something about the combination of deep, heavy Darkspawn Blood and tangy, bright Lyrium made the mixture go straight to his head. He continued glugging determinedly until the empty shotglass bumped up against his teeth, and he dropped the glass onto the bar with a mighty belch. The breath he took afterwards was metallic on his tongue.

"Ah! That hits the spot!" he declared shakily. His vision blurred slightly but it sort of went away after he blinked several times.

Hawke set his glass down at the same time with an almighty groan, supporting himself on the bar with both hands as if he might fall to the floor otherwise. Fenris followed soon after, muttering something in a foreign language. Isabela finished her drink and let out a high-pitched trill. Merrill was dead last, sipping her cocktail as if it was a cool glass of water and not an unholy mixture of unspeakable evil. When she finally finished, she looked up at the rest of them and smiled serenely.

"Shall we do one more?" she asked.

*

After everyone had collapsed at a round table and consumed one or two pints of beer and/or less severe cocktails, the conversation settled back into what seemed to be the usual territory of complaining about work and life outside of band practice. Anders learned that Fenris was the "sort of unofficial property manger" (whatever that meant) of the building where they had just come from, and that Merrill worked at a large-scale garden and greenhouse outside of town. He was shocked to hear that Hawke's incredibly ancient brown car served as a taxi. This was apparently a favorite topic of conversation, as Hawke sunk his head into his hands while Isabela and Anders traded quips about trading it in for a rickshaw instead. It was definitely the most he'd laughed in a very long time.

Anders downed his pint and left Isabela to tell Merrill a naughty story involving six sailors and a mast. He was a bit unsteady on his feet, but he made his way over to the bar, where Hawke was staring down determinedly into an empty pint glass (his third, Anders thought) while the bartenders were down at the other end. Fenris had apparently went to visit the restroom, leaving Hawke alone at the counter. Feeling bold, Anders came up beside him and jostled him at the hip - which really meant that his own hip poked into the man's colossal thigh. Hawke looked up sharply. Eye contact! Good! He was making progress.

"You know, I'm really glad that you didn't say anything when you recognized me," he began lightly, and saw Hawke tense up. "Waitwaitwaitwaitwaitwait! Let me finish. I know that you know that I... who I am and I'm just... I'm grateful that you kept it to yourself, okay?" He lowered his voice and rested both bony elbows on the bar, with his cheek on his hand so that he was looking into that rare gaze from Hawke. Not for the first time that evening, he wondered how Hawke's mouth looked under his beard. He was determined to coax a smile from the man -- if not tonight, then sometime in the near future. "My time with The Wardens was great, but it's over now, like _so_ over, and I don't want to spend the rest of my life trying to repeat it. I'm really happy about the prospect of starting something new. So... If you'd just keep the whole Wardens thingy under your hat, and not talk about it with the rest of the gang, that would be... nice. It'll be our little secret," he finished, giving Hawke a little wink.

Hawke broke their eye contact to stare determinedly down at the filthy bar counter. Anders could practically hear the gears moving while the man made some apparently very heavy decisions. The idea of Hawke thinking about him feel warm and floaty... or was that just the beer?

For a second moment Anders thought he wouldn't answer. Then, from under the beard, a reply emerged. "I can do that," he said quietly.

"Thanks! I knew you were a pal." The loose, friendly feeling of a few drinks almost compelled Anders to lay a hand on Hawke's arm, but he thought better of it. He had a feeling that Hawke might explode if he touched him.

"...Oh, there was one more thing I wanted to ask!" he realized with another hiccup. "What do you call this merry band of misfits?" He nodded behind them at the other three.

Hawke followed Anders' gaze, and when Anders looked back, he was struck by the naked expression of fondness on the other man's face as he gazed at his friends.

"Freedom's Call."


	5. I can't sleep in the wake of Saturday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And how did Hawke feel about audition night? Now we shall find out! Disclaimer: Please don't drive drunk!! Bad Hawke.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please feel free follow me on Tumblr (@dualwieldteacup) to stalk my ["Taking Back Kirkwall" tag](http://dualwieldteacup.tumblr.com/tagged/tbk), though be cautious if you aren't caught up on the latest chapter! I love you all tremendously. Thank you for reading!
> 
> recommended listening:  
> [Fall Out Boy - "Saturday"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UEzhlFqtAJk) ([lyrics](http://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/falloutboy/saturday.html))

This was the _worst_ night of Garrett's life.

He pulled into the basement parking garage, killed the engine, and proceeded to thunk his head repeatedly against the steering wheel. His head was spinning, had been spinning at the speed of light even before he imbibed any alcohol. With a moan that resounded against the windshield of his old car, he let his head drop one more time against the steering wheel and let it rest there.

What was he doing again...? Oh, right.

He blundered about for his phone for a bit and finally found it in breast pocket of his flannel. The phone rang six times before Bethany picked up.

"Gare! It's almost one in the morning. You're lucky I was binge-watching X-Files."

"And _you're_ lucky I love you too much to _destroy_ you after sent my-- m-my--" He gave the steering wheel one more good thunk. "After you told my teenage idol about my band auditions without a-- a _warning maybe_? 'Yo Gare you remember the fucking-- _reason_ you got into music writing?? And the lead guitarist from your favorite band of all time??????? Well he's _secretly my coworker_ and I'm gonna tell him to hang out with you and fucking-- blow everyone away and join your stupid band!'"

Bethany squealed. "Yay, he made it! And he's in the band! That's amazing! Are you drunk? You sound mumbly."

"Hnnnggggggggggg," Garrett groaned, throwing himself back against the seat and slumping down. It was extremely uncomfortable. "Yes, _yay_ , he's in the band. But Bethy, I--" He spluttered wordlessly. "You can't _do_ that to your own brother, you can't just-- like-- what if I told fucking-- my secret _taxi driver coworker_ , uh, uh, _Leliana_ to-- to go your _preschool teacher auditions!!_ Huh!"

"Oh, would you please? That would be wonderful," Bethany replied dreamily. "I miss her stories."

She was really not getting the point.

"And! And!!" he added. "He-- he doesn't want me to _tell_ anyone who he is, so like-- I went from being a weird obsessive lifelong fanboy this morning to his-- his _bandmate slash confidant_ in less than a day! I mean _what the fuck_. This is an emotional rollercoaster, Bethy."

"I know you don't like rollercoasters," she said sympathetically.

"Bethy, listen, I--" He flung his glasses onto the passenger seat, scrubbed at his eyes with his hand. "He read my article."

"Your what?" A small tapping sound told him that Bethany wasn't really listening anymore. She was probably sipping her wine and watching the X-Files episode with the volume down but subtitles on. He'd seen her employ the same tactic every time their mother called while they were hanging out.

"I... I wrote a review for the magazine recently and I said something kinda... nice about him. And he emailed me to say thanks."

Bethany giggled. "That's cute. You'll be married before you know it."

Garrett sank even lower in the seat, which he didn't think was possible. "NONOnonononono, wait, listen, he doesn't know it's me."

"...What?"

He pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. "When I write for the magazine, I'm published as GH. His email was to 'GH.' And I was kind of looking forward to emailing him back, telling him it was cool that he enjoyed the thing I wrote." _I made him smile._ "But then he walked into Fenris' basement tonight and I just-- I don't know-- He was amazing. He was right there and I... I couldn't really talk to him. I couldn't even look at him! You know how I get around... around certain guys." _Around him._

"Uh huh," Bethany replied dryly. There was the sound of microwave buttons being pushed, followed by the sound of popcorn popping. "So apologize! Email him, or tell him next practice, and be cool with him from now on and you'll be _fine_."

"I can't!" he whined. "I can't be nice awesome guy over email and Hawke the awkward weirdo at practice. I--"

_Wait._

_Yes._

_YES._

"I'm a fucking genius," he whispered.

"Are you now?"

"It's-- I--" Garrett's eyes flew open and he blinked several times, trying to sort out the pieces. He lowered the phone slightly, dimly aware of the sound of Bethany's popcorn coming from the speaker.

On the internet, he was no one. He was GH. He'd never bothered signing up for social media because there was no one from high school he saw any need to keep in touch with, and his phone was too shitty to run all the photo and messaging apps that Carver and Bethany swore by. He was just a set of initials, an anonymous music critic who had brightened Anders' day.

And if he _had_ been an awkward weirdo at practice (and yes, he had)... that was Hawke. He barely talked about his work for TU with the others, since it was always more important to put their own music first. He was fairly sure that any one of them, if pressed, wouldn't even be able to name the magazine that he wrote for.

This was... an incredible opportunity. Even if he was going to continue to be a bumbling geek around Anders in person (and yes, he was), he could talk to him over email... as GH. His own secret identity.

"Just like Batman," he said softly into the phone.

Bethany yawned. "You _are_ drunk! I knew it! Go to bed, Gare. Some of us have X-Files to finish. Nighty night, and have fun dreaming of Aaaaaaaanders," she cooed. The call ended and Garrett took a moment to cement the idea in his mind.

His feet took him on autopilot out of the basement garage, up a few flights of stairs, and to the door of his apartment. He laid his guitar case on the couch and threw his flannel on top of it. As he stumbled in the dark towards his bathroom for a couple of aspirin and a glass of water, he turned the pieces over and over again in his head.

There was nothing _wrong_ with returning Anders' email to GH. 'Hey, thanks for your reply, I'm stoked that you read my work, lol Alistair am I right, P.S. what are you listening to?', nothing weird. Because Maker knew he was never going to be able to be that cool around Anders in person. Garrett remembered just how fucking awkward he'd been since he shook Anders' hand and sunk onto his bed with another loud groan. 'Your past experience is impressive,' _really_??? It was a good thing Garrett didn't meet his idols every day; otherwise, he'd just go around saying dumb shit like that for the rest of his life.

He kicked off his shoes and jeans, threw his glasses down next to his alarm clock, and wriggled under the cool sheets. Staring at the vague moonlight patterns on his ceiling, he could see nothing in his mind's eye but Anders smiling as he played that wicked new line for "Pirates and Their Curses;" Anders rolling up his hoodie sleeves to expose pale, thin forearms dusted with freckles; Anders asking him to keep his identity from the others and _winking at him_.

He was glad there was no one else around to see how red he was, but he pulled a pillow on top of his face and screamed into it anyway.

*

The post-midnight aspirin, a thorough morning shower, and fresh clothes meant that Garrett didn't feel like _complete_ garbage in the morning, but it was a close thing. He was running on about three hours of sleep. No more cocktails on fire was probably better for his health than the alternative.

Before 9:00 he was on the road and headed to his Sunday morning regulars, the Feddics. Mr. Feddic and his son Sandal lived on the opposite side of Lowtown from the grocery store, and for almost a year, Garrett had taken them to and from the grocery store for their weekly shopping trip. Mr. Feddic never pried into Garrett's personal life, and it was easy to say "mmhm" and "yep" while Bodahn recounted this and Sandal's adventures from the week. He was some kind of salesman, and always had a funny story to tell about an interesting piece of merchandise that had come his way.

After he dropped the Feddics back home, he got an incoming call from his boss.

"'Morning, Aveline."

"Good morning, Hawke. Long night? Your voice sounds a little rougher than usual."

"You have no idea." Garrett winced as the sun came out from behind the clouds, blinding him temporarily. He pulled down his mirror with rather more force than was necessary.

"Sorry to hear that. Listen, you're picking up Mr. Xenon's kid and taking him up to Hightown Middle School. After that, there's a guy near the Hightown market who needs a ride down to the docks." Aveline's voice softened and Garrett could just see the little crease between her brows as she leaned over her Kirkwall city maps. "Do yourself a favor and get something to eat, after. I know you'll go all day without so much as a potato chip. You'll feel better. Drink some water, too."

"Yes, ma'am," Garrett grinned, and obediently took a sip from the giant water bottle on the passenger seat before he headed for the Black Emporium.

For the most part, cab driving was relaxing, even when the traffic sucked. Either he had quiet riders and time to think, or he had his favorite music on and got to chat with some interesting people. Today was kind of a mixed bag. Xenon Junior (whom the idiosyncratic old shopkeeper referred to as "Urchin," and Garrett didn't know if he was joking or not) wanted to tell Garrett all about his favorite soccer team during the ride up to Hightown. There was no thinking through that, so Garrett just turned on the staticky car radio and "mm-hm"ed his way through it. Then the guy headed for the docks barely said 'hello' to Garrett before pulling out his phone and conducting a loud, threatening conversation in rapid-fire Orlesian. It was impossible to hear his music over the rider's voice, so Garrett just let himself zone out.

He thought about Anders' email, which he had pretty much committed to memory at this point. He had realized shortly after shaking Anders' hand at auditions that _this_ was what he'd meant by "getting back into music," which. Like. No pressure or anything. He realized he was squeezing the steering wheel with a white-knuckled grip and forced himself to chill out.

He remembered the way Anders had smiled as he busted out that incredible line in "Portraits," which fit so well that Garrett couldn't imagine how empty the song must have sounded without it. He remembered Anders rolling up his sleeves to play, his pale, thin forearms dusted with freckles like stars. He remembered how close Anders had stood at the bar, gazing into Garrett's eyes, a few strands of gold and copper hair slipping out from behind his ear...

"Monsieur!" snapped the Orlesian man. "You 'ave just missed the turn for the dockmaster's office!"

"Sorry, sir," he mumbled, checking both ways before executing a smooth (and 99% legal) U-turn to drop the man off where he needed to be. The businessman muttered under his breath, shoved some cash at Garrett, and stalked away.

Garrett exhaled deeply and slipped his fingers under his glasses to press at his eyelids. Two hours in Anders' presence had turned him into a blushing, stuttering mess. Maybe he should just ignore the email, quit the band, and move to Par Vollen to work on a farm.

*

After his seemingly endless Sunday shift ended, Garrett popped by the store to grab some gelato and strawberries, then headed to his mom's place for Sunday Night Supper With The Hawkes. As soon as he opened the front door of his childhood home, he was immediately assaulted by a series of familiar and comforting smells and sounds: roasting herbs and vegetables, some citrus-cented cleaner, the clink of wine glasses, the muted roar from a football game on TV. That meant that the twins were already here.

"Hey, who's winning?" he said, shrugging out of his hoodie and approaching the back of the couch, where Carver was sprawled out with a beer.

His younger brother looked up at him with a raised eyebrow. "Would you know or care, if I told you?"

"No," Garrett admitted with a grin. "Remind me never to be nice to you again."

He proceeded into the kitchen to greet Leandra and Bethany, sniffing interestedly at the contents of a frying pan as his mother continued her rant about some obnoxious woman on the city council.

"I swear, the only thing keeping Meredith Stannard alive is bitterness and hatred for other human beings," she pronounced, waving her wine glass precariously. "Did you know she wanted to turn the elementary school into a maximum security prison, because 'prisons make money and children don't'?"

"I've heard of her! She's the one who voted to take away half the funding to the Circle," Bethany spat. "Oh, speaking of which--" she turned to Garrett, who was poking at some freshly baked rolls, as Leandra went to set the table with Carver. "What was your genius plan regarding Anders?"

Garrett jumped as if burned, then recalled that he was supposed to be mad at Bethany for betraying him. "Plan?"

"Yeah, I thought you said you were going to do something clever, I forget though. I woke up on the couch an hour later with popcorn all over my lap."

"Plan. Uh. No plan. I'm just gonna be... you know... normal. Around him. All the time. It's gonna be great." Garrett turned from her and lifted a pot lid to examine the soup. His glasses fogged up immediately.

"That's great! I do apologize for not texting you a warning, but I thought it would be a fun surprise," she grinned. "I honestly had no idea that Andy my coworker was _The_ Anders until I saw his guitar. I remembered it from a photo I came across a long time ago in a certain somebody's wal--"

Garrett gasped, tore off a fluffy roll, and stuffed it into Bethany's open mouth with a strangled noise. "You can't break a blood oath!!" he hissed, half for comical effect and half to drown out her words. "Do you want demons to manifest in Mom's immaculate kitchen?!"

Bethany giggled and bit off half the roll, chewing thoughtfully. "Okay, I won't say anything. But do you want me to invite you to my class next time we have music hour? You two could play a duet..."

"I thought it was the older sibling who was supposed to be insufferable," Garrett moaned, snatching the other half of the roll from Bethany's hand so he didn't have to talk about it.

Dinner was amazing, as always. Leandra chatted about which magazines each recipe had come from, and what clever changes she'd made to each to enhance the dish. After they had eaten multiple helpings of squash soup, roasted root vegetables, pork cutlets, and gelato with strawberries, they settled into the soft chairs and couch to finish their drinks. "Oh, kids," she remembered suddenly, "are you free on Wednesday afternoon to come to the gardening center with me? I'm picking up a few big plants and I could use some help getting them in and out of the car."

"Sure," Carver said quickly, then looked down at his lap with a clenched jaw.

"Yeah, I'm free," said Garrett.

"I have to cover for Donnic this Wednesday. But Carver..." Bethany murmured, fixing him with a mischievous gaze. "You were rather quick to agree. Is there something you'd like to tell us? Some ulterior motive for running errands with Mom?"

"Carver is always so supportive," Leandra said distractedly. "Two weeks ago when I went there to place my order, he spent a long time in the greenhouse, researching plants that would look nice in the study. The girl was so helpful, too. Isn't that lovely?"

"THE GIRL??! What girl??" gasped Bethany, pelting the beet-red Carver with a pillow and demanding more details. Garrett sipped his drink and smiled, glad that Bethany had found someone else to focus her superhuman curiosity on.

*

When he got back to his apartment after dinner, he tossed the container of leftovers into the mini fridge under his kitchen counter, then took a seat at his desk and signed in to his work email. He had spent the drive back from his mom's formulating the words, so his fingers flew across the keyboard swiftly.

_Dear Mr. Kristoffson,_

_Thank you for getting in touch! It's always great to get feedback, especially from esteemed performers like yourself. I have to admit that my editor was a little uncertain about needing to include my comparison between you and Mr. Theirin, but I stand by my judgment._

_I'm thrilled to hear that you are playing again! I've been keeping an ear out for you since The Wardens' breakup and was saddened (though not really surprised) by your absence from the scene. I hope you find a group that fully appreciates your incredible talents._

_By the way, I recently discovered a band that I think you would really enjoy. They're called Bella and the Bann, and their singer used to be with The Black Vials, who I know you know. They are working on their first album, but I have some demo tracks I could send you. Let me know if you're interested._

_Cheers,  
GH_

Before he could change his mind, he took a deep breath and hit Send.


	6. So get back, back, back to the disaster...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anders spends Sunday listening to an incredible playlist compiled by his new favorite music critic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote Anders' listening scene and GH's list with many real songs in mind. As if I didn't already feel like an emo dinosaur going through my music for the "recommended listening" tracks for this fic, AP (the semi-inspiration for TU) has just posted ["20 Albums We Can't Believe Turn 10 This Year"](http://www.altpress.com/features/entry/20_albums_we_cant_believe_turn_10_this_year1) if you'd like to listen! Oh, and the "downright embarrassing" music video with a celebrity cameo is [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ix5z1bRz4Sc). :P
> 
> Please feel free follow me on Tumblr (@dualwieldteacup) to stalk my ["Taking Back Kirkwall" tag](http://dualwieldteacup.tumblr.com/tagged/tbk), though be cautious if you aren't caught up on the latest chapter.
> 
> Thank you for reading!!
> 
> recommended listening:  
> [Sugarcult - "Memory"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=elTPMgkvWU4) ([lyrics](http://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/sugarcult/memory.html))

A sore, wrung out, extremely hungover shape which strongly resembled Anders woke up with shafts of Sunday morning sunlight falling across his face. He turned over and let out a croaky noise from between two chapped lips, startling the cat who was snoozing above his pillow.

Sitting up was too much to consider, so he rolled slowly onto his belly and pulled a pillow over his head to block out the sun. He hoped that Freedom's Call didn't celebrate _all_ of their important decisions with such copious amounts of alcohol. Just like his fingers were out of practice at picking out complex melodies, the rest of his body had been woefully unprepared to jump back into partying after three years of being a friendless office worker. He had a vague recollection of Isabela telling Merrill about 'body shots,' and was fairly certain that he'd remember if he had licked salt from anyone's neck. That would've been a big step to take, for someone as touch-starved as he was.

He groped around blindly for his phone and found it in the tangle of sheets. Negotiating one eye open, he unlocked it to see a message thread with an unknown number.

_?: Hello Anders, it is Merrill! You told me to text you to make sure that you made it up to your place so that is what I am doing!_

_Anders: yeaahhhhhhh i made it1 thanks for the role_  
_*rode_  
_**ride_  


_?: Hooray! Good night! :)_

Merrill, he now recalled, had wisely consumed the flaming cocktail of insanity followed by some pear cider, and then water. Water! That was probably a good idea. And then _coffee_.

"Prrrrr?" Pounce asked.

"That's sweet of you to offer, Pounce, but I don't think you could reach the coffeepot."

With great effort, Anders extricated himself from beneath his duvet (still squinting against the bright sunlight) and shuffled out to the kitchen to drink a glass of water and start the coffee maker. The machine always took forever, so he headed for shower, stripping off his sweaty t-shirt and briefs and letting them fall to the floor. Eyes closed under the stream of warm water, he washed his hair and ran a soapy washcloth over his body, and studiously did _not_ think about anyone licking salt off his neck, _bad Anders_.

After brushing, flossing, and putting on his most comfortable t-shirt ("Kinloch Middle School Guitar Ensemble") and a pair of cat-print pajama pants, he _almost_ felt human again.

He poured a cup of coffee for himself and a dish of kibble for Pounce, then settled down into the comfortable chair by the window with his laptop, notebook, and headphones. The window caught the morning sun, and now that he wasn't being rudely awakened by the warmth and light, he savored the feeling on his clean skin and wet hair. After Pounce had eaten, she also jumped up and snuggled into her usual spot between Anders' hip and the armrest of the seat.

For the first time in a long while, he felt entirely at ease. So many weekends had been spent alone reading or running errands, anything to make the time pass until he went back to work on Monday to have something to do. Then Monday through Friday was spent slogging through paperwork, spacing out on breaks, waiting for the next time he could be alone and do nothing. Yesterday, playing music with passionate, upbeat new people -- and the fun, if overboard drinks outing after -- had been like finally getting out of bed after that long, long dream of his old life. He wished that the next practice wasn't six days away. Perhaps he see Fenris or Merrill at the market, or visit the bar where Isabela worked.

...Perhaps he'd ask Hawke if he wanted to get coffee.

 _Too much!_ something inside him seemed to exclaim, pushing the thought away. Still, there was new a warmth in his chest that had nothing to do with the hot drink in his hand.

Anders hid a smile in the rim of his mug as he opened tabs for Bardspace and Thedas Underground, and began to catch up on three years' worth of music and news.

*

After several hours, Anders' hair was long since dry; he'd had a second cup of coffee and several pieces of toast; and he'd filled four pages in his notebook. He had about a billion tabs, and had jotted down notes on all the groups he could remember listening to and touring with from his days with The Wardens. He was not at all surprised to learn that about a third of them were definitely broken up, a third were on indefinite hiatus, and a third were still making music. Of these, only a few proved to be anything of interest.

In the albums that Anders sought out, here was a definite trend towards high production value and theatricality for drama's sake rather than contributing to the music. Several bands whom Anders had liked for their earlier albums' straightforwardness and gritty, natural feel were now putting out singles featuring pop singers and rappers, with accompanying music videos that were downright embarrassing. On the other hand, the songs that had made the Thedas-wide charts were simplistic and vapid.

He was stunned to find that one of his favorite bands, Queen of the Blackmarsh, had slowly replaced each of its founding members with a new person _twice_ but were still performing under the same name. The original bassist now hosted a reality show which seemed to be little more than pranking celebrities in public places, and the original synth player was teaching organic chemistry at a prestigious university in Val Royeaux (at least, Anders thought it was her; there were only so many people named Velanna, after all).

By far the best things he found were videos of The Wardens' old producer tooling around in the studio with a mandolin, doing fun covers of classic rock songs. Duncan had always been an extraordinarily talented man. The videos were posted on TU.com, and scrolling down to the bottom of the post, he saw with a pleased little jump in his stomach that the person who found them was none other than GH.

"Not enough people pay attention to record producers!" GH had written. "If you love an album, check out the producer and see what else they've worked on. Chances are, even if you've never heard of those other bands, you'll enjoy what the producer did with the music. This is the incredible Duncan from Origin Records. You're welcome."

Anders smiled as he clicked on GH's profile to see what else he'd written, and was not disappointed: there were more than two hundred CD reviews, tons of articles on concerts and events, and many posts on the site's extensive message board forums. Anders found a promising looking recent thread linked at the top of his profile: **"GH's 100 Best Songs of the Past 5 Years (Fight Me)."**

"Given the usual snubbing of our genre in the Thedas-wide album awards this year, I decided to compile a list of songs that have been influential or impactful to me in some way. These are by no means the most popular punk/punk pop/power pop/emo/screamo/metalcore songs right now (you can turn on the radio for that) but if you didn't want my awesome opinion you wouldn't be reading this thread, right? Right."

GH went on to list his favorite songs, with listening links and some commentary for each entry:

 _78\. Blackstone Liaisons - "Favor for a Friend"_  
"You've probably heard the cover by Broken Circle that's been making its way around this month, but I bet you've never heard the original. (I once met a guy at a show who was convinced that the Broken Circle version _was_ the original. I didn't have an aneurysm, but it was a close thing.) 'Favor' was great when it was released on the _Blackstone_ EP 5 years ago and it's still great now. I have come sooooooo close to getting a tattoo of 'I would drown us in blood to keep you safe' more times than I care to admit. Short but sweet."

 _65\. The Black Vials - "Dissonant Verses"_  
"Do me a favor before you listen to this track. Picture yourself walking through a forest at night, holding a single candle in one hand and a sword in the other. You are journeying to the darkest part of the woods to slay a dragon in its sleep. Now hit play, and really listen to these lyrics: 'The Old Gods will call to you / From their Ancient Prisons they will sing.' Now tell me you didn't get chills."

 _59\. The Templars - "Hessarian's Sword"_  
"If you didn't spend at least three weeks after a bad breakup screaming along to this in your car... apparently you've never gone through a bad breakup. Keep this one in your pocket."

Anders worked his way down the list, playing every song through in its entirety while reading and grinning at GH's notes on each. It was a _superb_ list, though of course readers had responded to GH's post asking why so and so had been left off, or why he'd ranked this song over that one. GH always responded coolly and intelligently, delving into the reasons why he'd chosen and ranked each piece. He had something to say about every moving lyric, every praise-worthy instrumental line, every mindblowing breakdown. He knew the background history behind crazy concept albums who told a story through the progression of each track. His notes and explanations made the listening process so personal, so deep, in a way that apparently many of his readers were unfamiliar with.

Even though GH had never spoken to him, Anders felt as if he knew the man's personality like that of an old friend. He was witty and smart and his taste in music was just--

_GGGGRRRRRRRRRRRRRRMMMMMMM._

Anders looked up at the clock as his stomach growled, and was astonished to see that he had spent almost all day at his self-appointed task. He gently scooted out from under Pounce's warm form, stood up and stretched, and called in a delivery order from the noodle place down the street. While he was up, he put on a hoodie, took out the trash, and started a load of laundry. Further digging under his bed produced a guitar stand, and he promptly set it up next to his bed so Justice didn't have to live in his case all the time. Anders didn't think he could bear to keep Justice imprisoned in his case after all those years living in the darkness.

He felt a little better about how he'd spent his day once the food arrived and he was eating it in a nearly spotless apartment, beaming at Pounce as he slurped hot broth and noodles. The calico blinked slowly back at him.

Anders hummed as he went downstairs to switch his laundry, then made a cup of chamomile tea. As the hot water cooled, he glanced out his window, drowsy from eating his meal just a little too fast. The view outside was now that of Darktown at her unruly and sordid prime: crooked buildings that blocked out the moonlight, making it hard to see the filth on the streets and the cracks in the sidewalks. Flickering streetlights gave off water the color of used bathwater, mixing nauseously with the neon glow of crammed shops and eateries. Raucous voices rang off the stone and metal buildings, and the obnoxious rumble of cars and buses seemed to grow louder as night fell. Anders gazed out at it for a moment before turning back to his laptop and putting on his headphones.

Before getting back into GH's playlist, he opened up a new tab to check his email, and saw with a pleasant flutter in his chest that a reply from the writer awaited him.

With an intensity at odds with the warm, blissful feeling of just a moment ago, Anders slammed the laptop shut with a sharp crack. What in Andraste's revered name was wrong with him?

All these years without any real close friends, or conversations with anyone but coworkers, had really taken its toll. He had gotten unjustifiably giddy thinking about someone he had met _yesterday_ , someone whom he would have to be productive and professional with for many months or years to come. A very shy, very bear-sized someone who very likely had a girlfriend or a boyfriend already. _That_ was a sobering thought.

And on top of that, he was all worked up about an email from a music critic who had mentioned him in an afterthought, in an article that had _nothing_ to do with Anders or his music. Almost immediately, the fluttery sensations were replaced with a those of cold and heavy stone.

He was being ridiculous. _Of course_ he was going to get all moony over the first two people who were nice to him once he started interacting with other people again. It meant absolutely nothing, and he would be an idiot to think otherwise.

Anders threw his headphones off and forced himself to walk away from the closed laptop. His chest still felt heavy and tense, and there was a tightness in his throat. He could hardly believe that he was entertaining thoughts of coffee outings with a new colleague whom he'd hung out with all of _once_ , then getting excited about a message from a writer who'd said _one_ kind of nice thing while taking a dig at another musician's work. Talk about a low fucking bar.

He flopped down bonelessly onto his bed, feeling suddenly drained and inexplicably miserable. _This is what I get for listening to love songs all day._ He needed to get his head back on straight. Not everything was destiny and soulmates and love at first sight and _I would drown us in blood to keep you safe_. I mean _come on_.

Pounce, ever the perfect housemate, sensed his sudden change in mood and jumped up on the bed to lay on his chest and purr. Anders held her close and let a few tears run down his temples and into the pillow.

Considering how incredible yesterday's companionship had been, the loneliness drilling a hole in his heart was that much more unbearable.

*

Anders spent Monday filing records in the back of the office, listening to music while trying not to get papercuts; and that evening getting groceries, making food, and reading a book. On Tuesday morning, he was getting into the elevator when someone with a perfect part in her black hair squeezed in behind him.

"Morning, Andy!" Beth said breathlessly, greeting him with a bright smile. "I understand congratulations are in order."

"Hello," Anders replied, managing a return smile at about 30% intensity. "Hawke told you about auditions, I suppose."

"He did, and he had nothing but good things to say about you." Anders pursed his lips instead of smiling, and looked down at the floor. Bethany nudged his foot playfully. "I bet you were great! Now I _definitely_ have to come to your first show."

"That's a long way off, still. But thanks for your support. And thank you for, um. Introducing us."

"Of course." Now it was Beth's turn to look away, her face hidden by a sheaf of hair as she rummaged around in her bag for her keys. "Hey, do you think Meeran and Athenril will let you work in another department next Wednesday? Donnic usually helps out with Meals on Wheels, but I'm covering for him and I could use another delivery runner."

Anders thought of the endless stacks of records to be filed, and the bleak hallway couch where he had taken to spending his lunch breaks. "Yeah, I'd love to! I'll ask them if it's okay. But, um... I don't drive."

"Don't worry, I'll pair you with a driver." Beth beamed at him as the elevator doors opened to her floor. "Come down to the receiving docks at 9. Have a good week, if I don't see you before then."

"You too," Anders called to her retreating back. _He had nothing but good things to say about you._ There was a slight spring in his step as he went up to his own floor, to another day of mindless filing.

*

Anders successfully ignored GH's email until Wednesday, when he decided he needed a pick-me-up after an awful day at work. There was a lot of muttering about a Miss Stannard on city council, who was threatening to enact a new law enforcing a six-month probationary period for new clients of the Circle job resource center to begin their new positions. Anders agreed that it was bullshit, but privately thought that Meeran and Athenril being nasty to everyone was doing very little to help.

He showered, jumped into bed, and opened his laptop, where the message notification from GH glowed on his screen like a beacon.

Anders grabbed a pillow and held it half in front of his face, as if to ward off any sudden feelings that might arise from whatever the message contained. And continued to hold it there, as he opened the email and read it. And read it again. So the smile that eventually bloomed on his face was hidden, and the little squeaky noise that escaped his lips was unheard by anyone, save his cat.

_Dear GH,_

_Please call me Anders! I may be retired, but "Mr. Kristoffson" makes me feel way too old._

_Actually, I guess I'm out of retirement now. I agreed to join a new band after a wonderful audition this weekend. From what I experienced in those brief minutes of playing (my first in three years, yikes), I think we'll work well together. The other members are skilled, friendly, and really fun to hang out with, too. I suppose you'll be one of the first to hear when we have some material to share!_

_Yes, you should definitely send me those Bella and the Bann tracks -- I've always enjoyed Sigrun's work. In light of my sort of sudden decision to start playing again, I've been making an effort to listen to recent albums and singles on TU and Bardspace. I felt a little overwhelmed until I came across your "100 Best Songs of the Last 5 Years" list on Sunday, which has been a lot of fun to go through. I really loved reading all of your comments for each piece. "Favor for a Friend" is one of the most criminally underrated songs in the world, so I was pleased to see it getting the attention it deserves._

_Did you ever get a chance to see Blackstone Liaisons live? We toured with them a while back and I was always a little jealous of how well they worked the crowd._

_I'd happily take any other music recommendations you have, as I'm getting dangerously close to the end of your "100 Best Songs" list. I don't know what I'll do with myself when it's over._

_Best wishes,  
Anders_

He didn't think he could put this off for another moment, so he bit his lip and hit Send.


	7. We turn our music down and we whisper, "Say what you're thinking right now"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a post-audition flashback; a trip to the gardening center; GH's favorite song

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, can I tell you all how absolutely overwhelmed I get when I see new hits, kudos, and comments for this fic?? I think my boss is suspicious about why I'm suddenly smiling at work all the time.
> 
> I apologize if I used a lot of the same expressions or synonyms for 'happy' in this chapter. Pray for our boy Garrett. He has no idea what's coming next.
> 
> Yell with me on Tumblr (@dualwieldteacup) and/or [stalk the tbk tag](http://dualwieldteacup.tumblr.com/tagged/tbk). Thank you for reading!
> 
> recommended listening:  
> [The Starting Line - "Best of Me"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zGG0QYjdgJQ) ([lyrics](http://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/startingline/bestofme.html))

Garrett spent his two days off definitely _not_ eagerly awaiting a reply from Anders like some kind of oversized puppy. He ran errands on Tuesday, and on Wednesday after lunch he made himself clean out his car so that his customers didn't have to sit on guitar picks and the loose sheets of paper where he drafted his song ideas.

While he was cleaning his windshield, he had a glare-off with his least favorite Uber driver at the gas station -- what was the guy's name again? Collins, Cruller? He'd had an unpleasant run-in with the guy before, when Collins was running late and the frustrated customer had called Kirkwall Cabs instead so she could get to the airport on time. Noodle-hair bastard. That had not been a fun day.

Garrett hastily finished up at the gas station and headed to his mom's house for their trip to the gardening center. He thought briefly about asking her if he could check his email on her ancient computer, but didn't think he'd be able to make coherent noises if there _was_ a reply waiting for him.

Carver and Leandra were in the front yard, raking and bagging leaves since it was supposed to rain next week. Garrett helped them stuff an enormous pile of dead brown leaves into the giant paper bag before they got into Leandra's compact SUV. Carver, who had the very manly desire to always be the one driving (but the very reasonable outlook that he should not argue with his mother), settled for sitting in the passenger seat and fidgeting. Garrett squeezed in behind Leandra and winced as she braked hard at a stoplight, pushing his kneecaps against the back of her seat.

"Sorry, boys," she muttered, glaring icily at the person in front whom she had almost rear ended. "Oh, Wits, how did your band auditions go?"

Garrett tried not to roll his eyes at the familiar nickname. Like all nicknames, it had a silly origin story: he'd had trouble with his "r" sounds as a child, so until the age of four, he had pronounced his own name as "Gawwit." Malcolm had jokingly called him "Wits" one day and it had stuck. Leandra only called him "Garrett" when shit was about to go down.

"Really good, actually. It turns out that Bethy's coworker is a, um, amazing guitarist. He's gonna start practicing with us on Saturday." Garrett fought down a dancing feeling in his chest. Objectively speaking, even if he had never heard Anders play before in his life, the guy was still a masterful musician and had outplayed every other person who had tried out for Freedom's Call that night. He was pleased that Fenris, Isabela, and Merrill had heard it too.

"That's wonderful! Bethany always had an eye for getting people together." Garrett's stomach flipped over, though he knew that wasn't what Leandra had meant. "And Carver, how is the gym?"

"A hundred new members in the last month," he reported proudly. "We've got a couple of new trainers, too, mostly yoga and kickboxing--"

Garrett drifted away from their conversation as he thought about last Saturday for the millionth time...

...

"What is wrong with you, dude?" Isabela had snapped when they were in Garrett's car, headed to The Hanged Man. She leaned forward from the backseat, resting her elbows on the shoulders of Garrett and Fenris's seats. "Is this Anders guy, like, your secret sworn enemy or something? Did he torment you when you were teenagers? Do we need to assassinate him?"

 _Oh Isabela, if I could only tell you how he tormented me as a teenager._ "No, you don't need to kill him," he grumbled, holding the steering wheel in place. "I just thought that we should talk about him as a group, make sure we all feel the same way about him."

"He is an exceptional guitarist," Fenris said thoughtfully. "I really liked what he did on 'Pirates.' I couldn't have come up with a better line myself."

"I think we sounded like we've been together way longer than four months, and we worked well together. And he's super cute." Isabela waggled her eyebrows. "Merrill liked him, too. You notice how she didn't offer cookies to anyone else auditioning tonight?"

Garrett let out his breath in a shaky half-laugh. "I did notice that. It's just--" He met Isabela's eyes in the rearview mirror. He had to come up with _something_ , some excuse to buy himself even two minutes alone to process what had just happened. How was he supposed to tell Isabela that he'd had Wardens songs stuck in his head for the past five years? That he'd forever regretted not sticking around to shake hands or get an autograph? That he'd taken the day off work when he heard the band had broken up, and lain on the floor listening to all their albums over again and unable to speak? That he had spent so many hours scouring the internet, checking in with all of his contacts in the scene, for the slightest whisper of a chance that Anders was going to form a new band, or step in to tour with somebody?

And then, after a chance mention in the magazine, Anders had descended from the heavens just to say _thank you_.

And! And!! As if _that_ wasn't enough, Bethany just _happened_ to recognize the blue guitar and the copper ponytail, and he was right there in front of Garrett, frail and quiet and brimming with hope. It was beyond too good to be true; it was Garrett having the rug swept out from under him and freefalling into an existential crisis.

To say _yes_ to that crisis, to say _yes_ to hanging out every Saturday with this mythical figure whom Garrett had worshiped in dreams and whispers before he could even begin to articulate to his mother why it wasn't a good idea to set him up with her coworker's very nice daughter...

...Garrett didn't know if he'd survive it.

"I know there's something," Isabela purred in a murmur like the deepest part of the ocean. "Don't think we missed your electric little handshake. You weren't eye-fucking, but you were definitely... at eye second base." Fenris snorted. "Thank you, Fenris. Now... I'm certainly not going to _force_ you to tell us. But someday, you're going to make a little slip--" she touched his ear playfully, and he jumped in his seat, "--and then you'll have to tell Izzy all about it."

"Don't be evil," Garrett pleaded. "If I say yes, if I say he can be in the band, will you stop asking me about it?"

"That's no fun!" Isabela protested.

"I would agree with you, Hawke. The past doesn't matter to me. You know that." Fenris glanced at him briefly before turning back to watch the traffic.

Isabela gasped, betrayed. "Fen! Don't you want to know all of Hawke's dirty secrets?"

"I do not," replied the tattooed man shortly, and Garrett felt a wave of gratitude wash over him. "If _you_ not prodding at Hawke means that we get this Anders as our guitarist, I say that's okay."

Isabela flumped back against the backseat rather harder than necessary, crossing her arms in defeat. " _Fine._ "

*

Garrett almost didn't see the sign pointing the way to Sabrae Gardens off the main road; it was covered in ivy and had been done up in green paint. After trundling down a rough dirt road surrounded tightly on both sides by birch trees, the SUV emerged in a little clearing with a huge barn and several surrounding greenhouses. People of all ages were walking around with wagons and armfuls full of plants and flowers, and there was even a little outdoor cafe. He had expected some kind of hardware store with a handful of potted ferns or whatever. This was much more his mom's style.

Leandra headed to the special orders counter, and Garrett and Carver wandered off to meander among the rows of plants on display. "So where's this girl we've heard so much about?" he asked, narrowly avoiding knocking over a stone angel statuette. The narrow paths were definitely not intended for someone of his size.

Carver cleared his throat and turned one shade pinker. "She, uh, works with the exotic plants. She's really cute and sweet, and her arms..." He passed a hand over his face nervously as Garrett snickered. _Of course_ his gym manager brother would be an arm guy.

They threaded their way along a stone path to the smallest of the greenhouses, where a small girl with a pixie haircut was telling a customer about a shelf full of orchids. It was warm and humid here, and Garrett took a second to wipe his glasses on his shirt before peeking at the employee. She was wearing a t-shirt with the sleeves cut off, plus her green worker's apron, and she did indeed have killer biceps. She turned their way, and Garrett realized why.

"There she is," Carver whispered, at the same time as Garrett said, "Oh, that's Merrill."

They looked at each other with wide eyes. Carver looked stricken, but Garrett just grinned.

"You-- you know her?" Carver stuttered.

"Yeah, she's my drummer!"

"Oh Maker." Carver whirled around and nearly ran into a huge aloe vera, but Garrett grabbed him by the shoulders and spun him back to face Merrill, pushing him towards her.

"C'mon, I'll introduce you!" And despite his brother's rigorous gym training, Garrett managed to shove him forward. The orchid customer left, and the three of them were left alone.

"Hi, Merrill. I think you met my brother last week." Garrett smiled at her over Carver's shoulder.

"Oh-- Yes! Hi, Hawke! And, um, hello again!" Merrill exclaimed, a little too loudly. "We talked about, um... plants."

"Yeah," whispered Carver.

"Did you need help with anything, Hawke and...?" she looked uncertainly at Carver, who was examining the assortment of flowers near his feet with astonishing intensity.

Garrett rolled his eyes. "Carver, Merrill. Merill, Carver. Now you know each other!" he grinned. "Carver, you wanted to ask Merrill about those tulips, right?"

"W-What?"

"Tulips. Twoooooo liiiiiiips," Garrett drawled. Carver turned an even darker shade of pink.

"But tulips aren't in season until the spring," Merrill pointed out reasonably.

Andraste's tits, they were hopeless.

"I'm gonna see if Mom needs any help," he called over his shoulder, beating a hasty retreat out of the intimate little greenhouse. When he was back in the fresh air, he allowed himself a single laugh.

That wasn't so bad. Flirting: totally doable, and easy, and fun! Who knew?

So what was keeping him from texting Anders to see if he wanted to grab a drink after next rehearsal? Or talking to him at rehearsal, like a normal person? The thought made him cross his arms tightly over his chest, and effectively wiped the shit-eating grin from his face.

Well, there were several reasons. Number one was that it was way too soon, and Anders would be super weirded out. Even though Garrett had listened to The Wardens almost every day for several years, he had only _really_ met Anders a couple of days ago, and his abilities regarding basic human communication shut down entirely when Anders looked at him with that gaze like dark honey. Garrett could feel his heartbeat speed up just thinking of copper eyelashes and the loose hair framing his face...

"Wits, where on Thedas did you and Carver run off to?" Leandra demanded, peeking at him from behind the huge tray of snapdragons she was holding. "Take these, please. I've got about nine more..."

Garrett was grateful for the excuse to run trays of flowers to and from the car, as it totally explained why his cheeks were so red that afternoon.

* 

The trays of flowers were settled in Leandra's office, and Carver had an blissful grin on his face and Merrill's number in his phone. Garrett only wished that Bethany had been there; she would probably be talking about wedding dates already.

When he got home in the early evening, Garrett cracked open a beer, settled onto his couch, and promptly spilled the beer onto his chest when he saw that there was a fresh reply from Anders awaiting him. "Shit shit shit," he muttered, jumping up to grab a paper towel. _Note to self: never hold any priceless heirlooms while checking for email from Anders._

"Don't freak out, don't freak out," he said to himself, sponging beer off his wet shirt with shaking hands. In all likelihood, the reply said nothing more than "thanks for the kind wishes, don't send me any of your weird music, goodbye forever." Right? Right.

He paced around for a bit longer before taking a long gulp of beer for courage, sitting down carefully on the couch once more, and opening the message.

_Dear GH,_

_Please call me Anders!_

That small gesture of familiarity made Garrett cover his face with his hands and kick his feet in the air. He was so, _so_ glad that he hadn't checked his email at his mom's house.

With each sentence that followed, Garrett found it harder and harder to bite back his surprised, delighted noises, and at last he took one of the soft, worn pillows from the couch and screamed into it wordlessly. His neighbors probably thought that he had spent the last several days being tortured.

That Anders had sought out his writing and best-of list on TU was encouraging, right? He wouldn't have listened to GH's 100 favorite songs unless he trusted him. _That is, me._

Without bothering to wait, Garrett wrote back:

_Dear Anders,_

_Congratulations on the new band! I'm looking forward to hearing how you sound with them._

_Here's that EP demo from Bella and the Bann, plus a great live acoustic song from Sigrun that I found recently. I hope you enjoy them._

_I'm honestly blown away that you're working through my Top 100 list! It was lots of fun to put together, and looking back, I wish I'd been able to include more songs. I guess I'll have to make another list next summer. Maybe I'll do an annual thing, who knows._

_Ughhhhhhh I loooooove "Favor for a Friend" so much. Thank you for being one of the only people ever to agree with me._

_I did see Blackstone once, when I was in high school! Funny story, the lead singer kicked me in the head when he did a stage dive, and I don't remember the rest of their set. But what I was able to enjoy before I lost consciousness was pretty amazing._

_Let me know what your favorites were from my Top 100 and I'll send you some more stuff! Connecting people with music I know they'll enjoy is my job, so it would be an honor to help you get caught up._

_Cheers,  
GH_

__ Attached files:  
Bella and the Bann - EP (demo)  
Sigrun - "We Are Legion" 

Whew! That wasn't so bad. Garrett decided to make himself dinner to celebrate. He put on some water to boil and got out pasta, pesto, and cheese.

A response came 10 minutes later, causing Garrett to drop the handful of dried spaghetti he was clutching in one hand:

_Dear GH,_

_You can't imagine how hard I'm smiling right now. I am amazed at how much Sigrun's voice has grown over the years! I'm putting the Bella EP on my phone so I can listen to it on my way to work tomorrow._

_I've made it up to the last 5 songs on your list. Once I've had a day or two to process the whole thing, I'll be sure to give you my notes on my favorites._

_Sorry to hear about your experience at the Blackstone show! I'll be sure give Taoran a hard time about it next time I talk to him._

_Best,  
Anders_

This was honestly the first time in Garrett's life that he had felt anything like a maiden being defended by a chivalrous knight. Who offered to defend random music writers against kicks in the face from ages ago? Anders Fucking Kristoffson, apparently.

Before he could chill out enough to compose a reply, another email notification popped up:

_Hey, stop me if this is weird, but I just made an account for the TU messaging system. justice_AK. Are you online?_

_Anders_

This was _so_ not real life. Perhaps he had touched a psychotropic plant at the greenhouse and was under the spell of a hallucinogenic mushroom or something. Whatever it was, Garrett wasn't going to let it pass.

Wiping his sweaty palms on his jeans, he tapped his way to the TU site and opened the site's instant messenger, which he rarely used. He clicked "New chat" and entered justice_AK in the To: field.

staff_GH: You rang? 

After a few seconds, there was a reply:

justice_AK: wow, i can't believe that worked  
justice_AK: so  
justice_AK: hi  
staff_GH: Hey. :)  
staff_GH: I still can't really believe you're talkign to me.  
staff_GH: talking*  
staff_GH: You have to know this is a music writer's dream come true.  
justice_AK: first i've heard of it, really, haha  
justice_AK: cousland used to dominate all of our interviews and all that  
justice_AK: nate and oghren and i just goofed off  
staff_GH: Yeah, I know.  
staff_GH: Er.  
staff_GH: Not that I've read/watched all of your interviews or anything.

Maker's sweaty boots, Garrett, could you _get_ any more awkward?

He got up and threw another handful of spaghetti into the forgotten boiling water, which was totally the reason his glasses were fogged up and his cheeks were hot. Yes, definitely.

justice_AK: hahaha  
justice_AK: *i* still can't believe that *you're* talking to me  
justice_AK: i think if i tried to walk into any of my old hangouts from the warden days they'd be like  
justice_AK: uh, who are you?  
justice_AK: haha  
staff_GH: Are you kidding me?  
staff_GH: You're a legend!  
staff_GH: I don't think you can imagine how many people have been changed by the music you made.  
justice_AK: and now i know you're trying to get something from me.  
justice_AK: ;)  
staff_GH: What??? Wait!  
justice_AK: i'm kidding! haha  
staff_GH: Oh.  
staff_GH: :)  
justice_AK: but believe it or not, i didn't get you online to stoke my *massive* ego  
justice_AK: i actually thought  
justice_AK: er  
justice_AK: if it's not weird  
justice_AK: i wanted to listen to the last 5 songs  
justice_AK: with you?  
staff_GH: !!!  
staff_GH: Y  
staff_GH: Yes*  
justice_AK: oh good!  
justice_AK: i've got #5 queued up so  
justice_AK: let me know when you're ready  
justice_AK: :) 

Garrett didn't bother grabbing the pillow for the shout of laughter that overwhelmed him. He was having a difficult time typing; his body clearly wasn't used to processing such vast amounts of joy at once, and his shaky hands were so fucking useless. After several tries, he managed to navigate to his countdown thread and scrolled down to #5.

staff_GH: Oh, this is a good one!  
staff_GH: I mean, obviously I think they're all good, otherwise they wouldn't be on the list.  
staff_GH: You know what I mean.  
staff_GH: Ready if you are!  
justice_AK: ok, let's hit play on 1  
justice_AK: 2  
justice_AK: 3  
justice_AK: wow, killer intro  
staff_GH: I know, right??  
justice_AK: i love that echo in the background, just  
justice_AK: ahhhhh  
staff_GH: Okay, but just wait for the chorus  
justice_AK: okay i  
justice_AK: !!!!!!!!!  
justice_AK: wowowowoowowowow  
staff_GH: :)  
justice_AK: oh man i'm gonna have to listen to this again  
justice_AK: and like a third time  
staff_GH: :) :) :) 

They listened to three more songs in unison, trading exclamation points and "oh wow"s and "ahhhhh did you hear that suspended chord?"s as if it was the most natural thing in the world. Garrett almost didn't hear the timer for his pasta go off, wondering why there was a beeping sound in the middle of the synth-heavy instrumentals.

staff_GH: Oh brb, gotta turn off the stove.  
justice_AK: no worries! that's rather important 

He drained the pasta, tossed it into a bowl, threw in a forkful of pesto and some cheese, and stirred it around, humming.

It was at this point that Garrett's brain chose to remember what the number 1 song on his countdown list was.

And who performed said song.

And who was the incredible guitarist in said band.

Lunging across the room with a speed that belied his size, he smashed buttons on his keyboard until his trembling fingers navigated to the thread. The squirming sensation in his gut turned to lead as he saw that the Edit/Delete button was grayed out... Of course. The thread was more than six months old.

He didn't need to reread his notes for the song; he already knew what how bad it was, and there was nothing to be done but wait for the cold release of death to free him from existence. He carefully set his pasta on the coffee table before letting his face sink into his hands with a groan.

justice_AK: let me know when you're back, i'm gonna peek ahead to your notes for the last song!  
justice_AK: oh 

_1\. The Wardens - "A Hundred Years From Now"_


	8. The world revolves around us

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> GH and Anders revisit GH's favorite song.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now we see a glimpse of Anders' past. I've been wanting to write a scene with The Wardens for a while! This chapter relies pretty heavily on the recommended listening track, so please play along if you're able. Otherwise, I hope GH's notes on it will suffice.
> 
> My outline for this fic is getting sooooo out of control, you would not believe. I think there are more exclamation points than there are actual notes.
> 
> Thank you so much for your kudos and comments - they are my actual factual lifeblood. As always, please talk to me on Tumblr (@dualwieldteacup) and we'll hold hands and shout about Dragon Age, or follow my [tbk tag](http://dualwieldteacup.tumblr.com/tagged/tbk) for inspirational goodies. Thank you for reading! <3
> 
> recommended listening:  
> [Straylight Run - "Existentialism On Prom Night"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Neo-I7U1UfI) ([lyrics](http://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/straylightrun/existentialismonpromnight.html))

_1\. The Wardens - "A Hundred Years From Now"_  
_Okay, friends. Let me tell you a story._

_Once upon a time, there was a young man named GH. GH had a pretty rocky first two years in college, but he was determined to tough it out to earn a double major in music theory and creative writing. This most recent semester, however, had thoroughly kicked his ass, and he decided to drop out of school._

_He had no friends (because he was the least Byronic asshole in the lit department, and the least talented songwriter in the music department) and nowhere to go but his mom's house, so home he went. His mom didn't *outright say* that he had just wasted tens of thousands of dollars not really doing anything for two and a half years, but it was the kind of thing that GH sensed every night while they made dinner, and every morning when she left early to go to work. It wasn't a very pleasant feeling. Sure, he and his mom had always laughed and joked about "haha, you'd better not drop out of school and wind up with a shitty dead-end job," but there very little that was funny about being a bouncer at the club where he used to go see shows, and getting shoved and elbowed and bitten and spat on by drunk assholes instead of getting to enjoy music._

_It was in the depths of this winter that our hero dragged himself home from a fucking terrible night at the club. And I mean all night. Three in the morning, GH is sitting in his childhood bedroom with someone's cheap beer spilled down his back, numb fingers from standing out in the cold checking ID, nail marks across his face from a fucking high schooler he caught using a fake, a crick in his neck from the high schooler's boyfriend who decided to wrestle GH, because that's how you get your underage girlfriend into clubs, right? And GH is just _exhausted_. There is a fatigue that is deeper than flesh and bone, deeper than muscle ache; it is seeping into his mind and his heart. He cannot name a single reason why he needs to keep up the charade. He has no purpose except to fail at everything he tries to do, so what's the fucking point of anything?_

_Before crawling into his cold bed to fade into miserable oblivion for several hours, GH opens his computer and goes on autopilot to find something to listen to as he falls asleep. He clicks on the Bardspace page for the lead singer of his favorite band, and is surprised to find a brand spankin' new demo track. This is totally wild, because he knows the band has just gotten back from a huge tour across Thedas and no way are they recording anything new right now._

_Curious, he clicks Play._

*

"Go on, sparklefingers, take another shot," Oghren slurred, thrusting the flask at him. Anders took it and knocked back one more gulp, choking and spluttering as the liquor seared this throat. He was sure the fumes from the liquor were wafting all through their small recording studio.

"This can't be good for my voice," he coughed, eyes watering. He clung to Justice to stop the room from spinning.

"We'll all need it, if we're gonna hear you sing!" retorted his bearded bandmate, guffawing to himself before taking a long drink from the flask. He tossed it to Nate, who looked as if he had been thrown a rotten fish.

"This is gonna be awesome," Cousland announced from the behind the keyboard. She'd had her share of "Oghren's Special Brew" as well, and she was in a fine mood. It was a nice change from the usual end-of-tour Cousland, screaming at roadies and throwing mics and slamming doors and fucking off to who knows where with ten minutes to go before call time.

Anders tried to remember why they were at the recording studio after getting home from tour. He didn't even think he'd been home yet. Had he? He sniffed at his armpit. Nope, definitely not. He looked up at the clock, which said 1:27. Was it 1 in the morning, or afternoon? He had no idea.

"Why-- why are we here?" he asked the room at large.

"Because Cousland wrote a new song, and after you sing it, we get to go home," said Nate, in the tone of a Nate who has already explained something to a very drunk Anders nineteen times already. Good old Nate. What a great guy. Anders beamed at him fondly.

"And why am _I_ singing?"

Cousland spoke as she tucked her disheveled pink hair into a haphazard bun before looking at them over her shoulder. "Because I wrote it in A, and it sounds best in A, and I know it's in your range. Plus, my voice is a wreck from last night's show and I wanna do the harmonies."

"Cool." Then he squinted at the notebook on the stand in front of him. It had words on it, in addition to the usual chords and other markings scrawled there. Oh right, _these_ words! He blinked a couple of times and the words became easier to read. He scanned the page and frowned. There was very little for him to do on guitar, which was rather disappointing. He was a guitarist, not a singer! This was very disorienting indeed.

"Okay, everybody ready? One take, and that's it. We can do it, I believe in us." Cousland flashed them a smile. The three of them nodded their assent, and Cousland signaled to the bleary-eyed engineer behind the glass.

She touched her fingertips to the keys and began to play the intro. She could be so gentle, Anders reflected, when she wasn't threatening to kick them out of a crashing plane with no parachute, or any number of other things she tended to say when she was unhappy with the rest of them.

Then he remembered that his cue was coming up. Oghren and Nate began to play, and as he strummed, he sang.

*

_The opening is a series of simple arpeggios on piano, tender and quiet. GH wonders if this is a joke track, or maybe mislabeled? He knows that Elissa Cousland played piano growing up, and she has posted some silly clips of her messing around doing piano covers and whatever, but The Wardens have never used piano or even synth in their songs. The arpeggios repeat. He furrows his brow, listens carefully, and then hears bass and light, barely-there drums, and someone -- a man -- sings over the theme:_

"When the sun came up, we were sleeping in,  
sunk inside our blankets, sprawled across the bed,  
and we were dreaming..."

_This is _very_ unlike anything he expected, and yet he knows in his heart of hearts that it is Elissa Cousland on keyboard, Anders Kristoffson on guitar, Nate Howe on bass, and Oghren Kondrat on drums. GH can identify every Wardens song by the first chord; he has seen them play live once and on his computer screen countless times; he was such shit at memorizing things in school but he can recite every visceral lyric without needing to think about it. He knows this with the certainty of an art historian who finds herself upon a long-lost work of a famous painter._

_This is so different from any other Wardens songs... it feels like eavesdropping on a secret._

*

Cousland joined on for the harmony briefly, higher and softer than she usually sang. She and Anders sounded really quite lovely together, and Cousland's new lyrics were poetic, feathers and lace and quiet warmth. Why didn't they do this all the time? Anders added a bit of interesting sub-melody during the break, just because he could. Then he sang some more. It felt _good_ , and it sounded all right. He caught Nate's eye. His friend looked tired, so tired, but he was smiling.

"There are moments when, when I know it and  
the world revolves around us...  
And we're keeping it, keeping it all going,  
this delicate balance, vulnerable, all-knowing..."

Anders was soaring, fueled by liquor and adrenaline, which was really the perfect combination. Scrunching up his face a bit for dramatic effect, he belted:

"Sing like you think no one's listening  
You would kill for this, just a little bit, just a little bit  
Sing like you think no one's listening  
You would kill for this, just a little bit, just a little bit  
You would, you would."

*

_That last line is somewhere between spoken and sung, and GH knows with a skip in his heart that it is Anders Kristoffson singing, Anders the guitar god who usually stands to one side of the stage, fingers flying over Justice's frets and strings like it's what he was born to do. GH has heard Anders' voice in interviews and behind-the-scenes videos, but always in deference to Cousland's, and _never_ to sing. He wonders, why the hell not? Clearly, the man can play and sing at the same time, and although his voice is not as refined or as smooth as Cousland's, it is stunning in its own way._

_GH is dimly aware that his aches have subsided, that he has ceased to move and almost ceased to breathe. He is tethered to his laptop by the headphone wires and no force of nature could compel him to rise. He is lost in the high sung notes of that chorus, which cuts into him as raw as a fresh wound. And like a wound, the sound causes a sharp intake of breath. The gasp lingers on GH's lips as he closes his eyes and lets himself float. The simplicity of the vocal harmony here shakes him to the core._

_There is an honesty in Anders' voice that GH has never heard in Cousland's singing, for all her power and the way her voice soars up through her range as if it was meant to fly. His voice comes not from his throat but from his heart. For GH, it is like staring directly into his eyes._

*

Anders' voice was a little rough from Oghren's booze, but not so bad. He and Cousland were in harmony again during those "You would kill for this" lines and they sounded great! So great! Anders had to really reach for those high notes, but when he did reach them, he felt triumphant.

"Sing me something soft, sad and delicate,  
or loud and out of key, sing me anything...  
We're glad for what we've got, done with what we've lost  
Our whole lives laid out right in front of us..."

Through a slight lift in Cousland's chin and a minute shift in the way Anders chased notes across Justice's strings, they all managed to agree that they were building up here, even though they had never rehearsed this song, and Anders wanted to cry a little bit. He loved them all _so fucking much_ , loved how they read each other's minds and knew what they needed without speaking, how well they worked together just on the first take of a brand new song that Cousland had pulled out of her pocket five minutes ago. They were incredible, they were immortal.

He poured their invincibility into his fingertips and shoulderblades and onto his tongue for the last chorus, and his voice broke with the effort but he didn't care. Cousland's higher harmony this time around was total euphoria.

"Sing like you think no one's listening  
You would kill for this, just a little bit, just a little bit  
Sing like you think no one's listening  
You would kill for this, just a little bit, just a little bit  
You would, you would."

She must have fucked with the keyboard settings, because out of nowhere there was the sound of violins _on top of_ the piano theme, and Oghren played just a touch louder, and Nate gave that maddening toss of his head that made his black hair whip at his shoulders, and Anders would have given anything to stay suspended in this moment forever.

*

_The comedown is sudden -- just piano and vocals again -- and GH is suddenly floating in tranquil water where there were torrential storms a moment before. He is subconsciously aware that there are tears on his cheeks and that he is shaking._

"Sing me something soft,  
sad and delicate,  
or loud and out of key,  
sing me anything."

_People often ask me what the greatest song ever is. I always ask a follow up question: greatest for what occasion? A pick-me-up, falling in love, driving, a shitty day, total and irrevocable loss? Then we go from there._

_If pressed, I'll usually name another Wardens song, "Witch Hunt" or "Nature of the Beast." There's complexity and fireworks in those, catchy lyrics and the showmanship that we all love The Wardens for. And let's be real, I can talk about Anders' mind-melting solo in "Nature of the Beast" until my jaw falls off._

_But if you ever ask for my _very favorite song_ , I will say, without any hesitation, "A Hundred Years From Now." There is something about finding a song at the _exact right_ moment in your life that makes it almost impossible to explain to anybody else. I'm sure you have your own song that found you when you most needed it, that is tattooed on your heartstrings and embedded on your tongue._

_That February morning four years ago was one of the darkest times of my life, and I can tell you with absolute certainty that this song saved me. I couldn't bring myself to listen to it again until a couple of days later, because I almost couldn't believe that it had affected me so deeply. I saved it to my computer, and I am so glad that I did, because a couple of days later, Cousland took the track down from her page and I never saw it mentioned again. Maybe she decided she didn't like the song, that it was too different from the Wardens material and her usual solo side project stuff. I personally suspect that she didn't want anyone but herself to receive vocal credit for a Wardens track._

_I was initially hesitant to share this song with you, because I have selfishly come to think of it as _mine_. You will not find this song on any Wardens albums or LPs, in any published books or articles. It is not one of the seven tracks on the extremely rare Wardens B-Sides album _In the Shadows_. You will not find any mention of it in Cousland's Bardspace posts or Nate's blog or any interviews. When the band broke up the following February, this was the first track I listened to, and I don't have to tell you how long I wept._

_I'm not a religious person, but I repeat these lines like a prayer in times of darkness and doubt. I hum the piano theme when I walk alone at night. "A Hundred Years From Now" is so much a part of me that I don't think anyone will truly know me until they have heard it._

_When I wake from nightmares, this is the song I reach for, and Anders' voice carries me home._

*

Anders finished reading the article and closed his eyes.

He hadn't so much _forgotten_ about that day as he had forced the memory down into the deepest part of himself, another mess he couldn't bring himself to deal with. He was too stunned to react, feeling numb and dazed. There was no need for him to listen to the song; GH had articulated the rise and fall of each part so thoroughly that reading the words was just like hitting Play.

Thinking about that day was like rediscovering an old injury, or rather trying to use a part of his body that he thought had healed, but still stung. The taste of Oghren's booze was in his mouth; the acrid scent of four travel-weary bodies was in his nostrils. He could see the subtle movements of Cousland's forearm muscles as her hands danced across the keys. He felt the lift in his heart as he won a hard-earned grin from Nate. The piano melody swelled all through these familiar memories, enveloping him in warmth which held an edge, a warmth which he knew would not last forever.

Slowly, carefully, he tucked the memory away. He was still too surprised to cry, but when he did open his eyes, he felt about twenty years older.

The TU chat on his screen was flashing with unread messages. He gazed at the screen, though it took a moment before his brain was able to focus on the words.

staff_GH: Oh, Maker.  
staff_GH: This was definitely not how I wanted  
staff_GH: or expected  
staff_GH: you to read my diary entry of an article.  
staff_GH: This was probably a very bad idea.  
staff_GH: I'm just going to like  
staff_GH: bury myself alive  
staff_GH: and I hope you have a great rest of your life, totally devoid of me!  
_staff_GH has signed out._  
_staff_GH has signed in._  
staff_GH: And I'll get our webmaster to delete it first thing in the morning.  
staff_GH: I'm sos orry.  
staff_GH: *sorry

Anders dragged the laptop closer and tapped out a reply before GH could flee again.

justice_AK: wait  
justice_AK: you don't have to go  
justice_AK: or delete it  
justice_AK: i haven't thought about that song in a really long time  
justice_AK: but i  
justice_AK: i am really glad that it means so much to you

He still didn't know what had possessed him to reach out to GH this evening. Certainly sheer loneliness was part of it. But there was something about GH that made him so easy to talk to. Sending those first emails, Anders somehow didn't feel like a total fraud, trying to step back into the spotlight after being AWOL for ages. GH was so immediately warm and receptive and eager to share. Anders would have been certain that the guy _did_ want something from him if he weren't so honest. Was it sweet, or pathetic, that he trusted somebody he'd spoken to all of three times?

staff_GH: Oh!  
staff_GH: Okay, um...  
staff_GH: So I don't need to fake my own death, after all?  
justice_AK: well, not on my account  
justice_AK: really, it's okay  
justice_AK: i wouldn't have made music for years and years if i didn't want people to listen to it  
justice_AK: it's just that i hadn't thought about that particular one in a while  
justice_AK: i suspect that you may have heard it more than anyone else on the planet  
justice_AK: you know, i've never even listened to it?  
justice_AK: cousland never told us she posted the finished track  
justice_AK: i kind of forgot all about it  
staff_GH: Wow.  
staff_GH: That's  
staff_GH: I dunno, it makes me sad?  
staff_GH: I don't think I really was able to put it into words, how deeply this song affected me.  
staff_GH: And it sort of means more, somehow, that it's the only track I ever heard you sing on.  
staff_GH: Stop me when this gets creepy.

Anders tried to envision the man at his computer in some other place in Thedas, hand over his mouth as he waited anxiously for a reply. What was the difference between GH and the tens of thousands of other people who had followed The Wardens religiously throughout Anders' career? He was no stranger to praise, especially when it was the wide-eyed girls or guys who peeked at him through their bangs in the quiet moments after a show. This was different, somehow. GH understood "A Hundred Years From Now" in a way that even Anders didn't think _he_ did. He saw and felt exactly what the four of them were trying to convey. Most people heard the notes, listened to the words, but didn't really comprehend the song as a whole. The fact that GH could make Anders feel the song without having to listen to it was... astounding.

justice_AK: it's not creepy, i promise  
justice_AK: but it is a bit too much for me to think about right now  
staff_GH: I totally understand.  
justice_AK: thank you  
justice_AK: would you mind if we talked about something else?  
justice_AK: like teagan's amazing falsetto on that rainsfere track??  
staff_GH: Holy ashes YES.

*

Thursday was awful, simply awful. Anders stayed up late into the night talking to GH about his favorite songs from the list, thinking he'd be able to sleep in the following morning. But he was rudely woken up by a phone call from Meeran, begging him to come in because there was an unexpected arrival of refugees from Nevarra who needed help with their immigration paperwork. On Thursdays, Anders usually went in after lunch and stayed until the Circle closed at 8, so getting there in the morning totally threw him off. Despite several cups of coffee and grateful thanks from Meeran, Athenril, and their new clients, he was still bleary the entire day. The Bella and the Bann EP that he listened to on his lunch break was a small comfort.

It was a blessing when he came home and saw that GH was online. He threw off his work clothes and pulled on a badly wrinkled shirt that had been balled up under the bed with Justice. He laughed aloud when he realized what it was.

justice_AK: ha, i just thought of you  
staff_GH: Oh?  
justice_AK: yeah i just unearthed some old clothes  
justice_AK: and i found my blackstone liaisons shirt  
justice_AK: i have to dress nicely for work, but i'm gonna wear it under my sweater, haha  
staff_GH: !  
staff_GH: Awesome!  
staff_GH: I still own and wear ALL my band shirts.  
staff_GH: My family acts all shocked whenever I wear something without a logo on it.  
staff_GH: No shame.

Anders grinned. Feeling bold, he took a photo that captured his face and the T-shirt.

 _justice_AK attached a photo._  
justice_AK: you'll have to ignore the bags under my eyes  
justice_AK: i had a 14-hour shift at work today  
staff_GH: That explains your whole sexy tortured look.

Anders blinked at his screen before he burst out laughing, startling Pounce. He covered his face with his hands and giggled without reservation at the absurdity, the insanity of this situation. In less than a week, a stranger on the internet had brought him to tears, made him laugh, and filled his head with the most wonderful music. And called him "sexy." Maker's fucking breath, it was like being in high school again. He wanted to chase the sweet falling sensation for as long as it would last.

staff_GH: Er haha I mean!  
staff_GH: Um  
staff_GH: You look great!  
staff_GH: I mean the shirt looks great!  
staff_GH: Aaaaaaaand I'm going to hide now, goodbye.  
justice_AK: no don't hide!  
justice_AK: perhaps i should check a looking glass more often  
justice_AK: ;)

He couldn't help grinning as he watched the _staff_GH is typing_ notification appear, disappear, then reappear. Anders flopped onto his stomach with a pillow under his chest, kicking his feet idly as he settled in for another long night of talking about music with GH.

This was so wonderfully simple. Anders thought of all the nights he'd spent not talking to anyone else and couldn't imagine how he had sustained his solitary lifestyle when there was someone like GH, who was so smart and funny and great at listening. He supplemented GH's song recommendations with stories from touring or recording or secret late night collaborations, which GH seemed to love. Anders felt like a winter bloom turning its face to sunlight on the first day of spring.

His new goal, he decided, was to get Hawke to talk to him, too.


	9. I waste all my time just thinking of you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On a rainy day, a mix CD is extremely helpful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After a month -- a MONTH! -- here we are. Sorry about the long wait. I had a very hard time picking up where the last chapter left off, and the more I thought about my writer's block, the more discouraged I got... I also played the end of Dragon Age 2 again and got caught up thinking about endgame Anders instead of happy pop punk Anders... _and_ I couldn't choose the right song for this chapter, which was really throwing me off...
> 
> Then I remembered "Moshi Moshi," which is one of my favorites of all time _ever_ , and 6,000 words later, everything was fixed! Thenk you Jesse Lacey for my life.
> 
> Thanks for sticking with me, and for every kudo and comment and hit! They really do fuel me to keep writing and make me dance around when I see them pop up. I even re-read all of your lovely comments again as fuel for getting this chapter posted! Please prod me on Tumblr (@dualwieldteacup) and feel free to follow the [tbk tag](http://dualwieldteacup.tumblr.com/tagged/tbk). Thank you _so much_ for reading.
> 
> recommended listening:  
> [Brand New - "Moshi Moshi"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6QOO0QsmhUM) ([lyrics](http://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/brandnew/moshimoshi.html))  
> BONUS UPDATE: [here is](http://dualwieldteacup.tumblr.com/post/157318718785/wow-a-rare-find-a-recording-of-myself-singing) a college-era recording of me and my platonic a cappella soulmate [Caitlin](http://archiveofourown.org/users/with_your_hand_in_mine) doing an acoustic cover!

Garrett found a parking spot outside of Fenris' building and parked, but didn't turn off the car just yet. His battered iPod was hooked up to his ailing tape deck via an ancient cassette tape adapter, and through the thoroughly abused car speakers, a Dueling Dragons tune was playing. It was by no means his favorite song, and not even a great Dueling Dragons song, but he'd always felt it was fundamentally wrong to get out of the car before hearing a song all the way through.

He slouched in the front seat, shoved his glasses into his hairline, and draped an arm over his eyes with an almighty sigh. It turned out that he needed a _lot_ of emotional preparation before he saw Anders in person again, after their conversations from Wednesday and Thursday. Of fucking _course_ luck would have it that within a few days of Garrett meeting his hero, Anders would stumble upon the most personal and heartfelt thing Garrett had ever posted to the internet.

(Not to mention the following night when he had called Anders "sexy" and then screamed loudly when he hit Enter instead of Delete, prompting one of his neighbors to knock on the door and ask if she needed to call an ambulance. Amputating a limb would have been preferable to the mortification that overwhelmed him after _that_ slip of the fingers. Anders' humorous, accepting reaction had done little to ease the blush that burned in his cheeks.)

He had to be so, so careful not to reveal in person anything he'd learned in his GH conversations, and vice versa; and he _also_ had to remember not to mention a word about Anders' past while he was around the band. Briefly, he entertained the idea of not talking at all, which would probably be easier than trying to keep all of his stories straight.

What was _really_ going to be difficult was matching the Anders in his head, the Anders he'd kept in a sacred mental shrine for all these years, with the Anders that was going to be standing near him week after week. Looking at him was like staring into the sun -- warm and incredible, but impossible to do for more than a split second. Better to catch glimpses out of the corner of his eye rather than looking directly at him. For the trillionth time, he found his memory wandering to Anders' agile hands, the way he smiled at Garrett's jokes at the bar when he thought Garrett wasn't looking, the photo of him in his Blackstone Liaisons shirt with messy hair that Garrett _definitely_ hadn't saved to his computer _immediately_ \--

He jumped and nearly screamed when someone knocked on his window, and he lifted his head to see a very familiar face observing him.

"Hey, are you okay?" came Anders' muffled voice. The streetlight behind him cast a halo of fluorescent light around his head, illuminating the loose strands of dark gold hair floating past his ears. He was smiling curiously as he peeked in through Garrett's window. Garrett felt as if he'd been punched in the heart.

The song had just ended, so he turned off the car with a shaky hand. Anders stepped back as Garrett hauled out his guitar, locked the door, and fumbled for an explanation. "Hey, yeah, hi. I uh, was just thinking. About stuff."

From where his eyes were trained somewhere above the hand that held Justice's case, he could see the other man's lips quirk into a grin. "Do you do all your deep thinking in a car parked on dim side streets?"

"More than you'd imagine," Garrett found himself replying. "It's relaxing."

Anders mm'ed in reply, and as they walked together up the stairs to the apartment building's lobby, his idle hum turned into the vocal theme from the Blackstone Liaisons song they'd gushed about on Wednesday night. Garrett swallowed a hysterical smile and channeled his burst of energy into hopping up the last few stairs to pull the door open for him.

They spent that rehearsal teaching Anders the rest of their songs. To nobody's surprise, he was a quick learner, and by the end of the practice, he had helped Fenris figure out what to do with the intro of a tricky new piece, and added a spectacular melodic line on top of one of their more complex arrangements. It was no wonder that The Wardens' songs had all featured spectacular melodies and solos, if Anders could come up with them so easily. Garrett was beaming with something between pride and adoration and he had to fight to keep his expressions under control, lest Anders glance over and see him glowing like embers from inches away. He bit his lip to keep from smiling too hard, or else took long drinks of water to have something else to do with his mouth.

The funny thing was, Anders seemed to be looking at him rather a lot. Sure, he shared smiles with Merrill as she nodded in rhythm at him, lifted his chin in response to Fenris' signalling nods, and ducked his head politely at Isabela's intense, borderline predatory leers. But it was Garrett that his gaze always returned to. He kept up a stream of conversations, too -- complimenting Merrill on a well-executed sequence, or praising a high note of Isabela's, but also asking Garrett questions that the bearded man could only reply to in stuttered monosyllables. In all likelihood, it was because they were both on guitar, Garrett told himself, and Anders was just looking for guidance -- but there was something about knowing Anders was watching him and hearing his voice so close that made the basement practice room seem about thirty degrees hotter. He fumbled his chords and dropped his guitar pick out of sweaty fingers more than once, and he felt rather than saw Fenris quirk an eyebrow at him in an unvoiced question.

During their break halfway through practice, Garrett couldn't take it any longer, and shrugged out of his sweaty flannel. He'd had the foresight to wear a base shirt that wasn't _way_ too small for him -- something of a thin material and modern fit that Bethany had bought him for his birthday. After he mopped his damp brow with the flannel and flung it into a corner, he turned around to see Isabela fixing him with an intrigued look while Anders turned around quickly to open his guitar case.

"Are you _trying_ to kill him?" Isabela asked under her breath, one eyebrow arched in amusement.

"Do what now? Kill who?" he asked blankly.

"Never mind, sweet thing." She let her eyes run over his chest and biceps in a way that made Garrett feel as if he were wearing nothing at all, then sauntered over to Fenris to ask him about something. Garrett was flabbergasted -- why would he want to kill Fenris? and how? -- but at least no longer dying of heat exhaustion. He had a giant drink of water before stepping back into the circle beside Anders, who looked a little pink and was breathing a little harder than usual. Garrett figured it had been a while since he had played for so long; the physical exertion had to be taking its toll. He cleared his throat. The sight of Anders' slightly parted lips wasn't doing much to help _his_ concentration.

When they'd all settled back into place, he said, "Let's do 'Honeycut' again, but take it really tender and slow. I feel like it can have a lot of intensity without needing to be fast and hard. Sound good?" They all nodded, and even though Anders' face didn't look any less flushed, he had an expression of intense concentration in his eyes. Garrett tore his gaze away before their eyes had a chance to meet, and it seemed like he was going to power through it, so Garrett counted off and struck the first chord.

*

"Good morning," called Bethany as Garrett pulled into the delivery dock space on Wednesday morning. The sky was, in fact, rather gray and heavy, and rather looked like it was going to break into rain anytime now.

"Whatever you say," he yawned. He had spent way too long talking to Anders online again last night, and refused to let his good mood be squashed by getting up early to help his sister deliver food to needy families. He hoped that Donnic wouldn't be too talkative, giving Garrett some time to space out and mentally revisit last night's conversation while trying not to grin too much.

The two of them had listened to the new Hayder's Razor concept album together, Garrett trading his lyrical analysis for Anders' anecdotes about the musicians. It was an ambitious project, actually a musical but with no visuals or stage production; just songs and spoken words that told the story of an escaped wizard fighting for freedom and the charming thief who joined him on his journey to expose the lies of the Oracle. Vast in scope and with wonderfully intricate instrumentation behind the sung lines, it had taken the two of them several hours to discuss their favorite parts. They had both freaked out when a surprise guest vocalist appeared on a track in the third act, playing the part of the thief's long-lost cousin.

staff_GH: That's Charade from Charade & the Gems, isn't it???  
justice_AK: whoa that's charade!  
justice_AK: haha jinx  
staff_GH: :)

Garrett smiled at the memory and pulled his hood up over his disheveled hair. As he followed Bethany into the building, he caught the tail end of what she was saying.

"--and Donnic's still out with the flu, so you have another runner today."

"Hmm, someone cute, at least?" Garrett replied absently as he stretched his arms overhead, though his small smile was immediately erased at one glimpse of Bethany's waggling eyebrows. "Oh _no_ , Bethy. You _did not_."

She giggled and kept walking down the hallway, and Garrett caught a glimpse of the person who was waiting at the desk near a stack of boxes. A lanky, freckled someone who had just taken out his hair tie, letting dark blond hair fall in cascades around his face with the liquid motion of someone who had done this a thousand times before. He held the little elastic band between his lips as he ran his fingers through his hair, copper and gold, sending a thrill whispering up Garrett's spine and down to the tips of his toes. It was a certain someone whose neck was slender and curved above the collar of his navy blue button up shirt; a shirt that hiked up as he rose his arms to fasten his hair once more, showing the slightest hint of a trim waist underneath... A certain someone who looked just as sleepy as Garrett did, because they had been talking about Hayder's Razor until 2 in the morning.

Anders dropped his hands from his hair and raised his eyes, the corners of his mouth curving upwards in a way that made Garrett's gut do a little dance. He was totally unprepared for this and was absolutely, one hundred percent doomed. "G'morning, Hawke," Anders said.

"Yes. I mean hi." He winced and added a tally mark to List of Stupid Things That Garrett Says Around His Idol. For all the progress he'd made being cool as a cucumber when he was GH, he'd taken about ten steps backward on the being-coherent-around-Anders-in-real-life front.

Bethany grabbed one of the boxes filled with redolent paper bags, and motioned for Anders and Garrett to do the same. Garrett did his best to shoot alternately threatening and pleading looks of disbelief at his sister every time they passed, but she remained blithely unaware. On the other hand, Anders wore a tentative smile and kept trying to catch his eye, so Garrett had to stare resolutely down at the ground to avoid making eye contact and dropping the boxes he held in his hands. He draped his wool peacoat over the back of his seat to make room for the boxes and bags. The three of them loaded the brown car's trunk and backseat without any major disasters (somehow), and soon the smell of freshly prepared hot food permeated the interior of the car. Anders stayed behind to double-count the bags as Bethany took Garrett back inside to grab the paperwork.

"Evil, evil, evil," he hissed at her, jamming his hands into his jean pockets so he wouldn't notice if they were shaking or not. It was getting easier and easier to talk to Anders online, but the sight of the man in person still sent his nerves into a pathetic shredded heap of their former selves. He imagined this must be what stage fright felt like, except that he was not going to talk to a room full of a thousand people, he was going to be trapped in his own car with just one person and _oh Maker_ this was not good at all. He couldn't tell if he wanted to break down crying or shriek with laughter.

"'Thank you for getting me to spend more time with Anders, Bethany. Thank you for being a genius matchmaker and a wonderful sister, Bethany,'" she whispered back, ducking back behind the secretary's desk to look at the clipboards hanging on the wall. He glowered at the back of her head and thanked his past self for cleaning out his car last week, at least. "Are these two ready go to, Arianni?"

"Almost. I just need to see one of your driver's licenses for the new database," said the redhead.

Garrett fished out his wallet and painstakingly pried his license out from the little plastic pocket. As he handed it to her, a small and incredibly well-preserved magazine clipping fluttered out of place and fell to the ground. The side which faced up displayed printed words in black and white, but on the other side was a photograph... of the man who was reaching for the clipping. Horror rose in Garrett like a tidal wave.

"You dropped something," Anders murmured, fingers stretching out and lifting the scrap gently from the tiled floor.

"Ah-ha! I, uh! Thanks!" yelped Garrett, who stooped to snatch it from Anders' hand before he could turn the photo over to see his teenage self preserved in photographic eternity there. His heart was beating so loudly, he was surprised that Anders couldn't hear it.

The blond cleared his throat as Garrett tugged the scrap from between his fingers and hurriedly stuffed it back into its hiding place in his wallet. He turned away slightly as he asked, "Photo of your, er, girlfriend? Boyfriend?"

Garrett's hand slipped and he flung his credit card onto Arianni's desk. The secretary handed it back to him, along with his returned driver's license, with a raised eyebrow. Now would be a great time for the floor beneath him to open up and swallow him into the abyss.

"Uh, nope. Haha. I've never had a girlfriend. Or a boyfriend." _Andraste's charred ass, please let me shut up soon._ He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment as his idiotic rambling echoed in his ears. "It's a, uh, coupon. For a haircut." _Anytime now._

"Oh." With that single word and not a whole lot of tone, Garrett couldn't tell if Anders was laughing at him. Why oh why did Garrett ever open his mouth? And why was Bethany so conniving? He didn't deserve this.

Said sister came around the corner of the desk then, pushing a clipboard into Anders' hand. There was a list of addresses and a few printed maps with houses marked in colored pen. "That's your delivery route, and they should be in order, beginning with Lowtown and ending at the base of Sundermount. Bags are labeled, so all you need to do is go to each address, and deliver the bag. If no one answers, you can leave it on their front step. My brother knows the drill."

"Sounds good," said Anders, who was looking out of the window. The sky looked as heavy as Garrett felt. "I really hope we don't get caught in the rain."

"Better get going, then. Time's a-wasting." Bethany offered Garrett a small wink as she turned and greeted another pair of delivery drivers. He took a shaky breath and resolved to positively _trounce_ her next time they played Monopoly.

The two of them clambered into the car, Anders awkwardly positioning his legs so that he didn't crush any of the bags that lay at his feet. Above the aroma of the spiced meat and vegetables that had gone into the lunches they were delivering, Garrett became aware of a heady, bright scent that must have been emanating from Anders. Weirdly enough, it reminded him of the Lyrium liquor from the drinks they'd celebrated with last weekend. He filed that weird tidbit of knowledge away for later, and realized Anders was saying something.

"First stop is on Mythal Place. That's pretty close."

"Mmhm," hummed Garrett, not trusting himself to open his mouth and say something totally humiliating. This was going to be a very long day.

*

Garrett and Donnic had teamed up on this delivery route enough times that it was, at least, familiar enough for Garrett not to be nervous about that, too. He pulled up in front of the first house, Anders found the bag labeled with the correct name, and he walked up the driveway to deliver it. Garrett let out an enormous breath that was half sigh, half whimper, and took this opportunity to choose something to listen to. He tried to will himself not to break into a sweat over being confined in an enclosed space with Anders for the next several hours. A quick scroll through the iPod's contents had him thanking various deities that it wasn't loaded with tracks from his GH list, but fairly regretful that nothing on it was particularly interesting. He chose something safe -- a new album Varric had sent him a couple of weeks ago that had garnered an 8 out of 10 rating.

The car door opened and closed, Anders buckled his seatbelt, and they made their way to the next house. The two of them fell into a routine easily enough, and the (sort of) bright side was that there was too little time in between stops for them to really get a conversation going. Occasionally Anders would ask a question about the album or the delivery route or Bethany, Garrett would reply with a few words, then Anders would seem like he was going to say something but have to hop out again.

It was during one of the longer silences that the first fat raindrop hit Garrett's windshield, and Anders let out a sigh as he looked down at his canvas sneakers. "Couldn't last forever, I guess," he murmured. He ducked out of the car and hurried up the gravel drive to the front door. Apparently this was one of the elderly customers who was keen to know where Donnic was, because Anders came back to the car looking slightly damp and considerably badgered. Garrett curtly returned the woman's wave through the rain-streaked window and kept driving. Anders grew (understandably) unhappier each time he had to venture out into the rain.

The rain grew from a pitter-patter to a proper downpour, drowning out the music playing on the stereo. By the time they reached the Sundermount area, there were miniature streams of water flowing down the street. Anders looked about as pleased as a cat being given a flea bath, and Garrett could only imagine how regretful he must be at agreeing to help Bethany out today. "Hold on," he said as Anders reached for the door handle with a resigned slump of his shoulders. He rummaged around under his seat until he found a battered travel-sized umbrella, a garish orange with rainbow polka dots. It was hard to blame whoever had abandoned it in the taxi.

Anders snorted at the sight of the umbrella and gave a rueful smile. "That's okay, I don't have enough hands." 

"I know, that's why I'm going to hold it for you."

Anders opened his mouth to argue, but a particularly forceful downpour passed overhead, washing down the windshield in sheets. "...Okay."

The word was barely out of his mouth before Garrett flung his door open, stepped directly into a puddle, and felt the fronts of his jeans immediately begin to soak through. He popped open the hideous umbrella and splashed over to the other side of the car, holding it over Anders' door. Rain splattered his glasses, so he watched a stained-glass Anders-like figure haul a small box of bagged dinners out of the back seat and kick the door closed.

Muttering various profanities under their breath, the two of them negotiated their way from the flooded parking lot and up a stone path. They had to keep fairly close in order to both stay under the protective cover of the umbrella, although Garrett let his left shoulder and arm get a little more exposure so that Anders and the bags of food were completely underneath. From what Garrett could see through a sidelong glance, Anders' carefully redone ponytail was now a dripping, disheveled wreck, and anyone looking at his shirt would imagine he'd gone for a swim. He tried carefully not to think about wet cloth clinging to chest and back and neck, and failed miserably.

(This, he contemplated, was definitely the strangest thing that had happened to the two of them so far. Not only had Garrett's idol joined his stupid band and sought him out online to talk about music together, they were now delivering bagged lunches to senior citizens in the rain.)

The courtyard and walkways of Sundermount Square were, thankfully, roofed; so Garrett collapsed the umbrella and took hold of the box of meals. He carried it around the apartment complex as Anders sought out the correct bag, knocked on the door, and took care of most of the small talk. Garrett was pleasantly surprised to see Anders making easy conversation with the residents, gracious and pleasant. Some greeted Garrett and some asked about Donnic, while others only wanted their hot meal and no conversation at all. But those who did talk to Anders were obviously charmed. Garrett was glad to see that he wasn't alone in that.

Anders used the hideous umbrella for cover, Garrett the empty cardboard box, as they splashed back down the path and into the car with laughs instead of curses. That was the last of their deliveries, and now there was a long drive back to Kirkwall ahead of them.

He flung the empty box into the backseat and grabbed his iPod before starting the car. With a flutter of dismay, he watched the battery notification flash once, twice... and then the screen went blank. "Aw, crap." He felt a sheen of sweat appear on his palms. Driving alone without music was one thing, but driving with Anders in the car, and no music? He might just somersault into a fire pit to save himself the trouble of spontaneously combusting. He tossed the dead device into the center console and started the car, drumming his fingers on the wheel in agitation as he pulled onto the rainy street.

"Hmm, no iPod, huh?" Anders mused, glancing around his side of the car with a mere fraction of the awkward desperation that was quickly engulfing Garrett. One of his sopping wet shoes bumped into something under his seat, and he looked down curiously.

"Oh no, that's--um--nothing," Garrett stuttered as the giddiness of moments before turned at once to dread. This was doing absolutely _nothing_ for the clamminess of his hands or the burning in his cheeks. Anders' face broke into an incredulous expression as he lifted up what looked like a large, square, lavender purse with a zipper around the edges. "That's, uh--We really don't have to--"

"I know a CD case when I see one," Anders replied with a mischievous grin, as he unzipped the case. Within were countless sleeves of CDs, ranging from Garrett's favorite albums to mixes he'd made himself and labeled in scrawls of Sharpie.

He couldn't very well stop Anders now, so Garrett hovered in nervous silence as Anders flipped through the pages of discs, uttering "ohhhh, I _love_ this album" and "wow, I haven't thought about _this_ one in a while" under his breath. Garrett caught the familiar sight of two Wardens albums, which Anders didn't remark on, instead placing a palm over them with a fondness that Garrett couldn't help but envy.

Anders turned his head this way and that to read the titles of a few of Garrett's handmade mixes aloud. "'Songs with Clapping.' 'Road Trip, volume 7.' 'Morbid and Visceral.'"

"Oof, pass," Garrett murmured. He saw Anders smile out of the corner of his eye.

"Aha! This is the winner." Anders slid out a disc near the middle of the pack and fed it into the stereo. As it disappeared into the machine, Garrett caught a glimpse of his own writing: "Rainy Day Mix III."

"Oh Maker," he groaned, but Anders was already scooting back into the seat and throwing his head back with a shout of laughter as the obnoxious power chords and distorted vocals kicked in. "This fucking song!" he crowed. He began to sing along:

"I think I'm crazy, baby, let you off the hook too easy  
If you were a telephone, you'd still be off the hook  
This is my last leg, been awake for days  
In a minute I'll die of starvation  
I'll come back a ghost if I can haunt you and float around your room..."

Anders' singing voice sent goosebumps charging up the back of Garrett's neck, and he gripped the steering wheel tightly as if he might float away at any moment. Did Anders know... did he have any idea that _Garrett_ was the internet music critic who was fanatically obsessed with his music? (And still kept a photo of him in his wallet? Maker, he needed to put that safely in a desk drawer or something.) Would he have sung along just now even if he _hadn't_ spent one very long evening last week reminiscing about "A Hundred Years From Now"?

Garrett snuck a glance at Anders as he changed lanes, and a moment later he could feel Anders gazing back at him when he thought Garrett wasn't looking. He watched Anders' fingers move impulsively in his lap, mimicking the power chords with effortless fluidity. The harmony on this song was so enjoyable that he couldn't help joining in:

"What do I do when you get close?  
If I kissed your neck, would you slit my throat?"

They somehow decided that Garrett would take the lower melody, Anders the higher one, and after they had gotten over the initial joint surprise and laughter, their voices melded with surprising ease. Even with the rain battering down around them and the car's shitty heating system keeping the temperature sub-par and the windows a bit fogged up, Garrett's mood was buoyant and indestructible. Did Anders feel it, too?

"Are you thinking of me when you're putting on your makeup, darling  
and dying your hair like you do?  
Well, you're wasting your time if you're trying to impress me,  
I waste all my time just thinking of you..."

Harmonizing with Anders came easily to Garrett, like they had been doing it for ages and not just one half-assed time at their first band practice together. It was one thing to sing an original piece that he or Fenris had written, and something else entirely to let himself go wild singing along to one of his favorite tracks from high school. (It probably helped that both he and Anders appeared to have listened to this song hundreds of times before.) And there was something very high school about this, wasn't there? Just the two of them cruising around in the rain, an electric feeling of newness and these shared melodies between them. 

Too soon, the song was over. The next track began to play but it was mixed much louder than the previous one, and in unison, Anders and Garrett reached out towards the volume knob. The backs of their hands brushed together and that electric sensation, and the touch of Anders' warm, smooth skin, made Garrett draw his hand back quickly.

"Oops, sorry."

"Nothing to be sorry about." Anders' voice was a little uneven, and suddenly the car was much too warm. One or two more songs played, although neither of them felt inclined to sing again. Yet the silence that followed was easy, comfortable.

During a quieter track, Anders asked, "Do you remember when this album came out?"

Garrett nodded. Singing in harmony had torn down some invisible barrier, and his words came a little easier now. It was a vast improvement from wanting to bury himself alive after each and every utterance... though the back of his hand still seemed to glow where it had come into contact with Anders' own a second ago. "I was 16."

"I was 15." Anders smiled down at his knees. "I really wanted to talk to someone... anyone... about it, but there was nobody at my school who was into this kind of music. I hated how lonely that made me feel until I realized that there must have been other kids listening to the same album... I just had to go out there and find them."

Garrett almost made a comment about TU being an inspiration in that regard, but thankfully reconsidered a split second before speaking. "I was one of those kids," he said instead. "Bethy and Carver didn't really get into music until a couple of years after I did, and I didn't have any friends in school."

Anders looked over at him curiously. "Did you say 'not any,' or 'not many'?"

Garrett gave a short laugh. "Not any, as in none. Zero. It... it was hard for me to talk to anyone except for the twins, and we moved a couple of times, always in the middle of the school year. You know what jerks high schoolers are, especially to new kids, after all the cliques and shit have already been figured out."

"I... don't, really." After a little pause, he said, "I think we would have been friends, if we'd gone to school together."

The way he said it made Garrett's heart break a little, and suddenly he wanted nothing more than to have been there for Anders all those years ago. Immediately his mind flew to images of them going to shows together, playing guitar in the Hawkes' garage after school, lying on the hood of Garrett's car to talk about nothing in particular as the stars came out...

(...okay, yes, that particular fantasy was definitely toeing the line past the 'friends' category, but what was the harm in daydreaming?)

"I dropped out of school to join the band," Anders continued, even more quietly. "In some ways, it was the best thing I've ever done, but sometimes I think... that I would have liked to know what a normal life was like. I'm never gonna have the chance to sneak out of the house and hang out at the skate park and go on dumb dates--" (Garrett swallowed a sudden lump in his throat) "--and I'm pretty positive that the rest of high school would have been tremendously shitty, if I'd stayed. But... I wish I'd had the chance to find out for myself."

"Speaking as someone who _did_ go through high school... it _was_ really shitty," Garrett admitted with a grim laugh. "And if you asked me then -- Maker, if you ask me now -- _fuck yeah_ I would have joined a band to escape school. No question about it. And _you_ accomplished so many things that most people could never dream of." He couldn't help the tone of reverence that crept into his voice. This was edging pretty close to GH conversation material, and he could hear Anders begin to protest.

"...But hey, we both ended up here in Kirkwall, delivering lunch to old people and playing pop-punk on the weekend," Garrett pointed out. "So who knows if any of that shit in the past even matters at all?"

Anders was contemplative and silent as they pulled into the Circle's front parking lot, and Garrett was too petrified to turn his head even a fraction to gauge his expression. He once again parked the car while letting the rest of the song play through to its end. When the last reverberating notes echoed away and he turned off the engine, there was no sound save for the torrential rain on the windshield and roof. A light touch on his forearm startled him into raising his gaze, and then he was looking into Anders' face.

For the first time, Garrett looked at him - _really_ looked. Three things happened at once:

One, Garrett had always thought of Anders' eyes as being the color of honey, amber, or whiskey. But that was too mundane. What did come to mind in this moment was a line that sounded like something out of his shitty high school poetry notebook. _Molten starlight, glowing quietly under a veil of hazel lashes._ Where the fuck had _that_ come from?

Two, he somehow managed to restrain himself from yanking his arm away, such that Anders' fingertips were still barely making contact with the damp cotton of his hoodie. He swore he could feel them, five separate warm points that hovered centimeters away from his own prickling skin.

Three, Anders murmured, "Hawke..."

His name had no right sounding so ardent tumbling from another person's lips. It was totally unfair. He was hyperaware of that bright, Lyrium-like fragrance that permeated what little air there was between them. He opened his mouth to reply, but no words came out. He was lost in the minute rise and fall of Anders' chest, in the remnants of raindrops that clung to his disheveled bangs and to the whisper of stubble on his cheeks and chin. The sensation of Anders' hand floating above his arm, so close to touching and yet not, seemed to become the center of Garrett's universe.

"I'm--"

But what he was, Garrett never got to say. For the second time in a week, someone knocked on the car window and Garrett nearly jumped out of his skin. It was Anders who pulled his own hand back in alarm. Frazzled and unjustifiably upset that he'd been interrupted saying a sentence he didn't know how to end, Garrett turned and rolled down the window. A parking attendant in a bright yellow rain jacket was glowering at him.

"This is Circle staff parking only. Visitor parking's around the back."

Garrett apologized and she strode off into the rain. He rolled the window back up and glanced back over at Anders, but the charged moment was gone, and they were both shifting and nervous and averting their eyes once again.

"I should get back to work," offered Anders quietly. Without the car heater, he was shivering in his damp shirt. He opened the door to the downpour, looking at once regretful and eager to escape.

"Wait, do you have a coat? You're going to freeze to death later," Garrett protested. When Anders hesitated, then shook his head, Garrett twisted around and lifted his peacoat off the back of his seat. It was only a little damp where he'd leaned back against it, and would certainly be much too large on Anders' smaller frame, but at least it was dry. 

Anders considered for a beat, blinked ( _molten starlight_ ), then took the coat into his hands with a smile. "Thanks, Garrett. See you on Saturday?"

"Yeah, see you then."

And then he was gone, shrugging into the woolen coat and pulling up the collar against the rain. The sleeves went down to his fingertips and the overlarge garment overlapped in the front hilariously, but he was wearing it as he hurried into the building, and he was _also_ singing that song from earlier, so that Garrett caught the muffled words through the closed car door:

"And I'm not imagining how you give me the shivers,  
Standing up to your waist in the river,  
You're the sweetest boat-builder I think I've ever seen..."

When he rounded a corner and Garrett was sure that no one, not even the parking attendant, was around, he allowed himself to bury his face in his hands as he was overcome by dizzying hysteria that made his whole body shake. He was in _so deep_ , but Maker help him, he wasn't about to stop. 


	10. If you love me, let me go

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anders learns how Fenris and Hawke met. There is a change of leadership at the Circle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> recommended listening: [Panic at the Disco - "This Is Gospel"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jO2_3pVd5k0) ([lyrics](http://www.plyrics.com/lyrics/panicatthedisco/thisisgospel.html))
> 
> Thanks for waiting. <3

Donnic made a slow but complete recovery from the flu, and his assistant manager Brennan returned from her maternity leave, meaning there was no need to get extra help from Bethany and Hawke, or Anders' department, with meal delivery. Anders spent his workdays behind a desk once again, helping people fill out job and housing applications, and making calls to the low-income housing communities to check for vacancies. Sometimes he wanted to ask Beth if there was a possibility of another musical visit to her classroom, but he didn't want to push it.

("I like your coat," she said one morning when they passed each other by the elevators. "I think my brother has one just like that.")

Saturday rehearsals got more and more grueling as Freedom's Call shaped their music around their newest band member. Hawke pushed them to work together as a unit, falling back to allow Isabela's voice to soar during a final chorus, or bringing a subtle bassline to more prominence with each repetition. Even though Hawke wasn't the band's primary songwriter, it was obvious to Anders why he was their de facto leader. The man had a gift for leading and getting the five of them to work together smoothly, despite his reserved personality outside of practice.

Speaking of which, Anders had tried several times to hang out with Hawke since their rainy delivery day, to no avail. Once, he'd texted Hawke on a Wednesday night, asking if he wanted to order a pizza and go over a couple of their songs. In the nigh-illegible text he received in reply, Hawke regretfully informed him that he was covering a late night taxi shift and would be driving drunk people around the city until 2 in the morning.

Another time, Anders almost asked Hawke if he wanted to grab a beer after practice, but at the exact moment he opened his mouth, Hawke announced that he had to go across town to water his mother's plants. ("At 11 o'clock at night?" Fenris had asked with a raised eyebrow. "They're nocturnal plants," Hawke replied. Merrill nodded sagely.)

So since he continued to have no social obligations after work, and only band practice on the weekends, Anders' major source of social interaction was his conversations with GH. They stayed up late several nights each week to talk about music and listen to new songs together. Sometimes Anders would tell stories about his time with The Wardens; sometimes GH would take a turn telling him about the crazier shows he'd been to. Every time he pressed GH for information about his life outside of the magazine, the writer would grow shy and reticent. Anders marveled that someone who could write so deeply about his personal experiences with music could also be so hesitant to talk about where he lived or what his favorite food was. He couldn't decide if it was part of the TU job requirement to stay aloof and anonymous, or GH's own desire to keep his distance. In any case, it was fun to tease him, just a little bit.

justice_AK: you're telling me that you don't have a single photo of yourself??  
justice_AK: you must have like a high school yearbook photo or something  
staff_GH: Nah, I was sick on yearbook photo day.  
justice_AK: every year??  
staff_GH: Oh, another year my family was stuck in Gwaren for the first few days of class.  
staff_GH: That was fun.  
justice_AK: hmmm, gwaren...  
justice_AK: so you're from ferelden, eh?  
staff_GH: Er.  
staff_GH: Crap.  
justice_AK: :)  
justice_AK: so at least tell me what you look like  
justice_AK: short? red hair? face tattoos?  
justice_AK: ten feet tall with lightning shooting out of your eyes?  
staff_GH: Argh, I don't see why it matters.  
staff_GH: Just imagine that I look like however you want me to!

Weirdly enough, when he did choose to think about what GH looked like (well, he had to do _something_ in the shower while the conditioner sat), he looked like... Hawke. Could he help it if the sight of the man wiping sweat from his brow and neck, then flinging the sodden flannel onto the ground, sent his mind racing to R-rated daydreams?

He hadn't forgotten their interrupted moment in Hawke's car. The charged, weighty feeling between them had been too much to bear in silence, a gravity that seemed to draw the two of them inexorably together. He was sure that Hawke felt it too: those glances from under his dark tangled bangs when he thought Anders wasn't looking, the way he seemed to shine when they sang in tandem. Surely that spoke of something more than a satisfied bandmate? The memory of his fingers barely touching Hawke's sleeve, feeling the warmth of him so close, with Hawke's bright blue gaze focused through his glasses like a notched arrow...

He had known since their first handshake that he was attracted to Hawke, although instead of the usual fading of these strictly physical feelings - as often occurred when he spotted an attractive person in the library, or when his favorite coffeeshop hired a barista with tattooed forearms - he found himself craving more and more.

...But Maker, between Anders' unlucky timing and Hawke's propensity for shying away from conversation, they'd still be dancing circles around each other with gray hair and walking sticks.

*

The windy days and stormy nights settled into the frigid stillness of winter, bringing light snowflakes that made Pounce paw at the windows and press her nose against the glass. It was with some reluctance that Anders brought Hawke's woolen peacoat to return at practice one Saturday night. Not only was it much warmer than his own winter coat (an old brown coat patched with turquoise and gold, which was lacking a certain... something about the shoulders), it was kind of nice to have something of Hawke's around his apartment.

He hefted Justice in his hand as he took the basement stairs at a trot, arriving in their practice space a little breathless but smiling. He must have been really early, because the only person there was Fenris. The tattooed bassist was unlocking their metal storage cabinets and taking out their amps and cables. They exchanged "Sup"s as Anders set down his stuff and shrugged out of his coat.

As Fenris sat down to untangle a snarl of cables and Anders began to tune Justice, he said offhandedly, "I've been meaning to ask you. How do you have access to such a sweet practice space?"

He couldn't read Fenris's body language as well as he knew Hawke could, but Anders still saw the other man's fingers slow in their movements, and his shoulders tense. A few moments passed. Anders thought that Fenris might not reply, and he was going to let the matter drop, but at last, he spoke. "Do you know the name Danarius Archon?"

The name conjured an image from the news: sneering face, widow's peak, gray hair. Cold eyes. "Yeah, he's that guy who owns half of Kirkwall, right? Got into huge trouble with the law a few years back for like... oh Maker, wasn't it because he was using slave labor?"

Fenris picked up another cable to untangle. "That's the one. He's my uncle."

Anders almost dropped Justice. "Holy fuck, dude."

The other man smirked and resumed the quick movements of his fingers at the knotted wires. "Yes, well. To make a very long story short, after Danarius went to prison, control of the majority of his assets went to his next of kin. Namely, my sister and me. We're still getting the logistics worked out - as you can imagine, even after four years, there's a lot to process. Sometimes we get one of his lackeys knocking on the door, trying to get revenge or take control of the company or something. But it's kind of died down."

As Fenris spoke, Anders remembered another tidbit about the infamously corrupt businessman. "Wasn't he found out because one of his delivery guys went to the city guard? That wasn't you, was it?"

Fenris gave a bark of laughter. "Oh no, not me, I was a bodyguard. That was Hawke."

It was a good thing Anders was sitting down. "Wait, what?"

"Yeah, that's how we met. Didn't he tell you?" He set down the neatly coiled wires and fixed Anders with an amused look. "Hawke had taken a job as a deliveryman with one of Danarius's many shell companies. Of course, he had no idea at the time. Anyway, he worked his way up to bouncer at one of Danarius' nightclubs, and I even think he was walking the man's dogs for a while. When we met, I thought to myself, 'I would dearly like to be this man's friend if I knew for certain one of us wouldn't die in the next few months.' Then Danarius brought him in for an in-person meeting. He offered to triple his salary if Hawke would become a bodyguard like I was." Something about the way he said 'bodyguard' made Anders think that the job involved more unpleasant work with bodies than actually keeping people safe.

"...But instead of agreeing, Hawke thanked him, said he'd think about it, and went to the authorities. Me, I was in so deep I didn't think I'd ever have a life outside of working for my uncle. I kept my head down and worried about what would happen to my sister if Danarius got rid of me. But Hawke just... did it. He's funny that way." For a moment, Anders could have sworn that Fenris smiled fondly down at his tattooed hands. 

Anders' head was spinning. He tried to think about big, warm, shy, friendly Hawke as a bouncer for an actual, literal slaver. Hawke, who had such a gentle rapport with the elderly folks on his Meals on Wheels route. He thought about Hawke finding out the true nature of Danarius' business and deciding to risk his own life by turning him in... and yes, he could actually imagine it quite clearly. Hot and cold bloomed in his chest as he sat on the crate, clutching Justice closely to himself. Of course he knew there was more to Hawke that met the eye, but he never would have imagined... this. 

"And then, after all this crazy shit went down, the logical conclusion was to start a band?" he asked with a shaky laugh.

"Pretty much!" Fenris snorted. "Mostly we just tell people that we started the band 'cause we met when Hawke dropped out of school. Which is half true. But you deserve to know the real reason. I really and truly owe Hawke my life. He doesn't really think about the danger to himself, if his actions help others in the end. He is the one person I know who acts totally selflessly."

At these words, Anders frowned and furrowed his brow. Surely his crush-or-whatever-it-was on Hawke was skewing his reaction to Fenris' story just a touch. Hotly, he replied, "That's bullshit, though. No one is selfless. It's human nature to look after yourself. It's a survival instinct. People will always screw someone else over to save their own ass." He thought of pink hair, wild laughs, promises.

Fenris was gazing at him with something on the brink of pity. "Four years ago, I would have agreed with you. But Hawke is different. Hawke will give you everything, whether you ask for it or not. Hawke loves without reservation, without thinking of himself. He does not know how to be selfish. Everything he does, he does for someone else."

There was silence then, as Anders tried to absorb what Fenris had said. All of his prior experiences with trusting other people, giving his all, throwing himself into what Cousland had said would be the pinnacle of his life as a musician... everything told him that Fenris was delusional and there had to be a catch to Hawke. It was impossible for somebody to risk their life for the greater good, freeing their enslaved friend, bringing down the bad guys. That was the stuff of comic books and fairytales. It didn't happen in real life.

So why was his heart pounding so hard?

Then Fenris spoke, so softly that Anders almost didn't hear him. "Be good to him. Break his heart, and I will rip yours out of your chest."

Anders looked up with a jolt. "Wh--?"

Then the basement door at the top of the stairs crashed open as Isabela kicked her way in, declaring that she and Hawke had brought some cold six-packs and Merrill made lemon bars. Anders took a few deep breaths, willing his face and heartrate to return to normal.

But there was no point, because as soon as Hawke wandered close and Anders handed back his peacoat, their fingertips touched, and he could scarcely hear anything over the fireworks in his ears.

*

He clocked in from lunch on Friday to find the queue nonexistent, and Meeran and Athenril turning off the lights. "What's going on?"

"We're all going down to the conference room for a meeting. Meredith Stannard is here." Meeran said the name like some people might say 'a lifetime supply of dung.'

Anders recalled the name of the councilwoman who had thrown his department into an uproar several weeks earlier with her outrageous proposals. The measure to keep new refugee hires from working at their jobs had, thankfully, been struck down by City Council, but he was still disconcerted every time he saw a "Stannard for Mayor" sign around the city. Her ice blue gaze seemed to bore into him, unraveling all of his secrets.

His reply of "What? Why?" was ignored by both of his superiors, so he stuffed his hands into his pockets and followed them downstairs. They joined the flow of Circle employees from all levels of the building, and he caught Bethany's worried gaze briefly in the hall as they marched into the inadequate gathering space.

There was a wide berth around the woman at the front of the room, despite the lack of space for all of the employees. It seemed that no one wanted to get too close, and Anders didn't blame them. Meredith's eyes moved over each person in the crowd as if memorizing details about them. Her light blue eyes and blood-red blazer made her seem like a bird of prey.

Behind Meredith were seven or eight men in military uniform. Not the burnt orange of the city police, but rather the silver and red of the Templars. Meredith made no secret of her former service and continued allegiance to the Templar Order. A few of the Templars stood a foot or two taller than she did, but she was without question the most important person in the room. They were a bit threatening, hostile, like most people standing at attention in uniform... she was the lioness, watching them through her lashes before she bared her fangs.

"Your attention, please," she said in a chipped tone as sharp as diamonds, even though no one else was speaking. If possible, the room fell into an even deeper silence. "My name is Meredith Stannard. I served in the Templars for thirteen years, and have sat Kirkwall's City Council for the last eight. I have had the privilege of working alongside Mayor Dumar for the last decade, and as his health has unfortunately kept him out of the office for several months, he has asked me to go ahead with implementing the Kirkwall Financial Initiative."

A frisson of unease rippled silently over the room. They had all read about Meredith's efforts to close down schools and social services around the city in favor of the military budget and prison infrastructure. Anders had thought that Orsino, former chair of the circle, and other councilmembers had voted down Meredith's ideas. How could Mayor Dumar supercede the council to give Meredith permission to proceed?

"The rationale behind the initiative," Meredith was saying, "stems from the misapplication of city funds to organizations like this Circle, which have no substantial positive effect on their so-called 'clients,' and which use taxpayer dollars to pay for welfare for layabouts who in no way contribute to society, as well as the salaries of unqualified supervisors."

"What are you talking about?!" Meeran yelled above the sudden outburst from the gathering of Circle employees. "Our department helps people _find_ jobs, not sit around on their asses! And we actively work to get homeless folks off the streets and into affordable housing. How in the Maker's name is that _no substantial positive effect_?" he spat angrily.

Meredith looked up at him, her gaze cool and unwavering. "Meeran Webb, is it? Ah yes, supervisor of the Department of Employment and Housing Services." She read from a list on a clipboard that one of her people handed her. "You served two years in prison in your younger days. Involvement with the Red Iron gang."

The people standing around Meeran were too shocked to turn around and stare at him, but Anders felt the breathing still, the awareness heighten. Meeran's fists clenched even tighter and the blood drained a little from his flushed face. "That's right. I was let off early for good behavior."

"Fascinating." Meredith's eyes lingered on him for a moment before she continued airily, "We've been having issues with the Red Iron lately. Perhaps you could be of some use to the city police. Why don't you come down to headquarters for some questioning?" It was a statement, not a question, and before Meeran could reply, two uniformed officers came up on either side of him and clasped him by the arms. Anders blinked, and Meeran was steered bodily out of the room.

There was a beat of silence. Two beats. Across the room, Anders saw Bethany with her hand over her mouth, staring wide-eyed at Meredith and then at the spot where Meeran had just been standing.

"You can't do this!" Athenril cried, pushing forward through the tight crowd despite her small frame. She pointed at Meredith and the passive-faced guards standing around her. "The Circle has been around for decades, and we have done nothing but help Kirkwall! Not just our department, but free healthcare for low-income families, meals for the elderly, childcare for single parents--" she gestured around the room at clusters of staff, though they seemed to shrink away from her, averting their eyes.

"All at the taxpayer's expense, Miss--" Meredith consulted her clipboard again. "Browold. Astounding, that the so-called Department of Employment and Housing Services is run by a gang member, and a smuggler who escaped conviction through a convenient loophole."

Unlike Meeran, Athenril didn't back down. "That's right, and it was The Circle who helped me get back on my feet and out of that dirty business! I came here looking for an honest job and now I help other people who just want to make a living and take care of their families. How can you say that's not worth it, to Kirkwall's citizens?"

"I have doubts, Miss Browold, about the qualifications of yourself and Mr. Webb. This department should be run by a supervisor with leadership experience and proper training. Which is why I am suspending you from your job, and placing Petrice Roberts in charge. Henceforth, she will lead the department with a focus on putting our new labor towards military support." A young woman to Meredith's right gave a small bow, and bared her teeth at Athenril in a gesture that could only very loosely be called a smile.

One by one, Meredith called each supervisor of the Circle forward to either replace their supervisors or -- in the case of Childcare Services -- disband the department completely. Bethany broke into muffled sobs as a stricken-looking Donnic clasped her shoulders, unable to utter a single word. By the end of that hour, the Circle staff who had not been taken by Templars for questioning or "additional background checks" were left standing, stunned, either without a job or with a drastically changed one.

Petrice found Anders after Meredith swept out of the room, and turned that weird not-smile upon him. "Mr. Kristoffson, hello. I'm so looking forward to leading the department into a new era. So wise of Miss Stannard to help our military grow and our migrant laborers find some purpose in one move, don't you think?"

"I..." Anders felt numb. He couldn't even begin to find the words to tell her how _not_ into that idea he was. She seemed to see this in the way his face contorted.

"Of course, if you don't think your ideals are aligned with Miss Stannard's, we can always just part ways now. Avoid unpleasantness later on. What do you say?"

Anders drew a breath, thinking of the Nevarran refugees who would come in on Monday's ship to find an army conscription instead of housing and a job. He thought of Meeran, subjected to whatever inquisition awaited him at the Templar headquarters, and of the parents who would show up on Monday morning with Ella, Alain, and the other kids to find the childcare center doors closed.

Most of all, he thought of a twenty-year-old kid with a bright blue guitar in his hands, who had come to the Circle to ask about housing and had ended up with a job. All because Meeran and Athenril saw him helping another person fill out their job application while he was waiting for his turn, and saw how naturally helping others came to him. But Meredith saw nothing more than crimes of the past, and a future centered around soldiers and prisons. There was no room for washed-up nobodies in Meredith's world.

Slowly, he found the words to speak. "I think... that anyone who cuts off childcare, employment aid, and public services under the guise of helping the populace, and honestly thinks they're doing the right thing, is dangerous beyond belief. And I won't be a part of it."

Petrice's smirk said I thought so. "Sorry to hear that. Best of luck with your job search, Mr. Kristoffson."

And she followed Meredith out of the room, leaving him behind.

* * *

He made his way home in a daze. Nothing seemed real. Nothing seemed worth it. Had Meredith Stannard really fired all the staff who ran the Circle, replacing them with her cronies and turning their funds and efforts towards... war? He was unemployed, and his bosses were in guard custody. He felt unmoored, like a bird lost in a storm. A ship without sails. No... no metaphor seemed quite apt. All Anders wanted to do was lay down in bed and pet Pounce and not talk to anyone. 

Thus it was monumentally jarring to see someone leaning on the wall beside his door - and the last person in the entire universe he ever wanted to see, or think about, again. She was sucking absentmindedly on a lock of faded pink hair, though she let it drop from her lips when she looked up and saw him staring in the stairwell doorway.

"Hiya Andy," said Elissa Cousland. "Can we talk?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Gosh darnit, DWTC!" you shout at your computer screen. "This was supposed to be a lighthearted punk rock love story, not a political thriller!"
> 
> Yes, well--
> 
> "Where is the smooching? The hand-holding? _The makeouts in the back of the taxi cab?_ "
> 
> I, er--
> 
> "I came here for Dragon Age and pop punk, not a sadness extravaganza!!!"
> 
> I know!! Ahhh. It's coming. I promise. Stay tuned.


End file.
